A Certain Dawn
by Shutterbug12
Summary: Wilson could count the number of times House had failed, and, every time, House had failed fighting. Surrender was as familiar to House as it was to Alexander the Great, but Wilson wondered if the fight was worse than the failure.
1. Uphill Climb

Disclaimer: Not my property. I don't like lawsuits. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.  
A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback.

**Uphill Climb**

Before seven o'clock, the southeastern corner of campus was calm. A group of tall, lean boys emerged from Weaver Stadium, each carrying a pair of track spikes and a black bag emblazoned with a tiger striped, capital "P." Their conversation, and the sporadic, excited twitters and whistles of finches and chickadees, filled the silence between songs on House's play list as he cut between the gymnasium and field house, heading south, towards the lake. 

Sixty days. He'd kept count, since the surgery. He'd spent nearly two thirds of those days recovering, undergoing hours of rehab, but he had been on his feet—both feet, unaided—for sixty days. He had stashed his cane in his closet, amidst a set of golf clubs. His eyes had passed over it each morning, when he bent to pluck his sneakers from the floor for his morning run. He had never dared to throw it out.

House squinted as he emerged from the shade of a thick, tall cluster of Red Maple trees. The lake stretched to his left and right, framed by its tree-laden banks and brilliantly reflecting hot, white sunlight. Several canoes and kayaks floated idly on the surface. Passengers basked in the warmth of uninhibited sunbeams, like a family of cats stretching on a great expanse of kitchen flooring.

Pausing on the edge of the shore, House dragged the back of his hand along the top of his forehead, pushing aside stray, saturated pieces of hair. After wiping his hand on the fabric of his shorts, he started down a narrow, grassy path alongside the rows of trees. Broken branches, full of lush, wide, green leaves, and tufts of wild brush blanketed the path. His feet cracked twigs and flattened the tall, green blades, kicking up cool dew onto his own straining calves. He focused on the mechanics of his strides, on how his feet fell upon the ground, heel first, and on the combined effort of his muscles as they propelled him forward. Within his chest, his heart thumped wildly from exertion and excitement.

Overhead, the full, pliant branches of the trees rustled, leaves rising and falling to fan him with delicate, rejuvenating bursts of air. He pumped his arms quickly, urging his feet to match their pace, and he moved faster. His shorts formed the outlines of his thighs, and his shirt pressed tightly against his chest and abdomen, absorbing streams of sweat as they trickled down his body. His eyes closed briefly and a faint trace of a smile played on his lips as he inhaled deeply. The air swept into his expanding lungs and, coupled with the force of his own forward motion, cooled the sweat that glazed his skin and coated the tips of his hair. The cool rush of air pleasantly clashed with the sunlight that bathed his right side, raising goose bumps. He shivered as his feet carried him toward a gentle hill that snaked around the curve of the lake.

He lowered his head, beginning his ascent up the gradual incline. His feet landed harder on the springy earth and his arms pumped vigorously. Feeling the muscles of his legs start to burn, he eyed the crest of the hill. Forty, maybe thirty, feet to the top. His breath came in short puffs, matching the pace of his footfalls. He turned his head to glance over his shoulder and, as he measured his progress, he nearly stumbled, feeling a sudden, aching cramp in his thigh.

Instinctively, his hand dipped to his leg. He tilted his face upward, eyes tightly shut, as he slowed to an abrupt stop. Sounds faded to an incoherent buzz and the heat of the sunlight, suddenly scorching, burned on his skin. He bent forward, his left hand gripping the muscle just above his kneecap, while his right eased his aching thigh, the heel of his hand gliding along the ridge underneath his shorts.

He had approached Wilson, last week, about the ache. Wilson had chalked it up to muscle strain, the "pangs of middle age," and a poor attempt to score a bottle of Vicodin. Wilson had dismissively advised him to do what most people did: "Put on an ice pack. Take some Ibuprofen." And he had, begrudgingly, after he had run that evening and had felt an unwelcome tightness in his thigh. The pain had eased, slowly. With each return, it intensified and lingered longer, forcing him to run shorter distances and to look for alternate methods of relieving the pain.

Wilson had flaunted his prescription pad and tossed it inside his desk drawer. He had known where to find it, when he'd slipped into Wilson's empty, dark office after Wilson and his fellows had left for the night. He had folded and buried the paper, bearing his own hurried scrawl, inside of his pants pocket. Before returning to his office, he had carefully replaced the pad in Wilson's desk drawer, leaving nothing out of place.

That night, he had uncovered a small handful of Vicodin in his dresser drawer, wrapped in foil and stuffed into a folded pair of socks. He hadn't remembered saving them, but he'd deposited them into a used prescription bottle, reserving them for times when the ache in his leg became impossible to relieve with massages or over-the-counter medication. In five days, he'd only taken one. He had been disgusted with himself, as he had tilted his head back, the pill bouncing off the back of his throat. The forged prescription, which he had hidden in his jacket pocket, remained unfilled.

As House rubbed his thigh, he struggled to push the image of the square, folded piece of paper from his thoughts. He bowed his head, trying to convince himself that this ache was a simple muscle cramp. Soreness from overuse. Wilson, from time to time, was right.

He raised himself up, exhaling slowly, and stepped forward. He resumed his climb, his eyes focused on the grassy hilltop. His concentration centered on his movement, fighting to keep his arms pumping, his knees bending, feet pushing. His aching thigh mumbled its protest and he hoped, against his better judgment, that Wilson was right.


	2. Pocketed Temptation

Disclaimer: Not my property. I don't like lawsuits. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.  
A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback. **  
**

**  
Pocketed Temptation  
**

"House."

House groaned as he reached the elevators, recognizing the stern tone behind him. Most mornings, he swept through Princeton-Plainsboro's sliding glass doors, intent on making the ascent to his office uninterrupted, free of the trailing click-clack of two-inch heels or the approaching rustles of boring case files. It rarely happened. He could have sworn a silent alarm tripped when his foot crossed onto hospital property. Resisting a backward glance, he leaned forward and hastily pushed the "up" arrow for an elevator.

Cuddy halted beside him, her face already bearing a patient, professional smile, her hand clutching a folder. House eyed it suspiciously.

"You never finished your clinic hours last week," she chided, matter-of-factly. "You still owe me two."

"And _you_," he said boisterously, making sure his voice carried past the nurse's station near the entrance, "owe me two-hundred for last night's swing in the sheets."

Rolling her eyes, Cuddy inhaled slowly. "I expect you there tomorrow. Eleven o'clock."

"Dollars," he added. "Not hours." House adopted a thoughtful expression, his chin resting in the crook of his thumb and index finger.

"And you have—"

"I guess I'd take hours. Two-hundred, sweet hours of those firm—"

"—a new case." She raised the folder and extended it towards him. "Patient recently returned from a six-week backpacking trip through Germany and Austria. She's suffering from nausea, seizures, and hallucinations."

"Oh, come on," he whined, and shifted his weight impatiently, adjusting the backpack that hung over his left shoulder.

She emitted a short sigh and rested a hand on her hip as she looked down, bemused, at his sneakers. House became aware that he was gently bobbing on the balls of his feet, like an antsy child that had been denied a new toy. Grinning inwardly, he bounced to the rhythm of his speech.

"That's all you've got for me?"

Cuddy waved the folder. "Take it."

"No need," he said, stilling his feet. "Bad acid experience. Probably picked it up in some grimy, German hostel. Would explain the hallucinations, the—"

"Her tox screen was completely clean. Take it."

The shrill _ping_ of the elevator sounded its arrival. House ignored the outstretched folder and stepped toward the open door. He was jarred to a halt when Cuddy, swiftly stepping between him and his escape, slammed the folder against his chest. He glared at her unyielding open palm, pressing the folder against him. Her smile, he noticed, had vanished and her jaw was set beneath unblinking, adamant eyes.

He silently raised a hand to grasp the file, briefly brushing the backs of her fingers. "Only because that new top," he nodded at her diving neckline, "just saved me hours of trouble searching for good internet porn."

Cuddy pulled her hand away, apparently pleased, and slid sideways, clearing his path to the elevator. He moved into the elevator, stepping gingerly, but quickly, with his right leg. He was running short on patience for the saccharinely sympathetic concern that seemed to ooze from his female colleagues. Cameron had been casting him forlorn eyes ever since he had stumbled, coffee mug in hand, in the conference room's kitchenette. Cuddy, meanwhile, had been ubiquitously hovering in his shadow, bombarding him with reassurance if he happened to grimace. With his back to her, he could feel her eyes following him.

"You're limping."

His shoulders dropped a little. Turning, he saw her arm stretched across the elevator door. He pressed the button for the fourth floor. Maybe she would take the hint.

She looked at him from under a fan of dark lashes. "How's your leg?"

She spoke the words gently; House felt them rip through his ears and pummel his brain. He maintained a neutral expression, but felt twitches of agitation in his fingers that grasped the folder. "Fine," he said, the word spilling evenly from his mouth.

The echo of his reply hung between them. He wasn't fine, he knew. He hadn't run in three days. His last attempt had been an impulsive decision to use a hospital treadmill, prompted, in part, by a surprise visit from Wilson. It had ended badly. He'd hobbled back through the hospital and into the parking garage, holding on to custodial carts or leaning against walls when the electric jolts of pain seared through his leg. When he'd arrived home, he'd collapsed into bed, having no energy or desire to change his clothes. Eventually, the ripples of pain dulled to a gnawing ache and he'd slept fitfully for, maybe, three hours.

Since then, he'd been limping. The intense degree of pain that had flared during his last run hadn't returned entirely, but, over the last three days, he'd found himself nursing his leg, resuming old habits. Dipping his hand to his thigh and absentmindedly rubbing. Extending his leg in front of him when he sat, relaxing muscle and skin. Leaning on an old companion.

Last night, he'd stood in a glow of ambient light, releasing a whisper of a sigh, as he'd reached around a pair of golf clubs to grasp the curved, smooth wood of his cane. He'd wrapped both of his hands around its shaft, feeling a tightness arise in his chest. He'd hoped it would have been the clubs first.

This morning had been better and, managing a few unaided laps around his living room, he'd left the cane dangling from the back of a chair.

The elevator door still hung open and Cuddy directed him a doubtful gaze.

"I need to get to my office," he hissed, expelling a rush of hot air through his nose. A silent moment passed. Then, defeated, Cuddy's arm fell to her side and the door slid closed.

When he entered the Diagnostic's conference room, he found Foreman, Chase, and Cameron hunkered over piles of open folders and loose papers.

"Catching up on some leisure reading?" he asked, dumping his backpack into an empty chair.

Cameron's head shot up. "_Somebody_ has to finish your paperwork."

House raised his eyebrows. "Catty," he said, and let the folder in his hand drop past her face and onto the papers splayed out in front of her. Foreman and Chase stopped scribbling to cast sideways glances in the direction of the file.

"Patient presents with a hallucination, nausea, _and_ seizures." House walked unevenly to the white board, plucked a black marker from its tray, and wrote as he spoke. "Oh, and she spent weeks parading around Western Europe."

"Right," Cameron confirmed, dragging an index finger along the lines of the open case file. "It was a college graduation gift from her parents."

"Nice parents," mumbled Chase.

"Yeah," House commented, capping the marker and tossing it back in its tray. "Nothing nicer than dumping your kid in a foreign country with a backpack and a pair of boots."

Chase's eyes widened in exasperation and he dragged his gaze to Foreman, who shook his head slightly and directed him a fleeting, half-grin.

"So," House continued, as he sat beside Chase at the far end of the table. "Cuddy seems to think this case is a real puzzler."

Foreman scoffed. "It's probably just the effects of a bad acid trip. Wouldn't be the first college graduate to get carried away with free reign."

House heard shuffling papers. He placed his elbows on the table's clean, glass surface and leaned his head forward into the knot of his entwined fingers, feeling a tight pull in his thigh. He pressed his knuckles against his forehead and peeked from under the cluster of his hands to his left. His eyes fell on the trash can near his desk.

When Wilson had appeared in his office, three nights ago, Wilson had offered him a bottle of Vicodin—a ballsy attempt to get him to exercise and admit the error of his claims. He'd refused, watching the pills sail through the air and land with a rattle in Wilson's hand. He hadn't finished his own, left-over supply; five elongated pills had remained in the translucent orange container buried in the small, outer pocket of his backpack. Long after Wilson's departure, he'd found the full prescription bottle hidden near a stack of journals piled high on the bookcase near the door. _What a bastard_, he'd thought, his jaw clenched, as he'd hurled the bottle into the trash. He'd swallowed the rest of his pills over the next three days.

Cameron's voice, suddenly distant, floated into his ears, "Tox screen was clear."

Inside his leg, the tissue felt twisted, like the frayed fibers of an old rope. He blinked hard, tuning in to and out of the diagnostic chatter of his staff.

"—be Epilepsy." That was Chase. Idiot.

"Wouldn't explain the hallucination." Foreman.

Trying to appear mildly interested, House disentangled his fingers, stretched his left hand across the table, and wiggled the file free of Cameron's grip. She threw him an annoyed look, her lips pursed and eyebrows drawn toward the bridge of her nose.

House killed the urge to comment on her smoldering expression and pretended to focus very intently on test results and scribbled lists of symptoms. He dimly heard the overlapping of voices around him as the differential resumed. His right hand dived under the table to answer the call of another sharp bolt in his thigh, but, as it swept past the pocket of his jacket, a soft crinkle drifted to his ears. _Maybe it was money_, he thought. Intrigued, he scoured the bottom of his pocket with his fingertips, meeting a worn, creased scrap of paper. _Too big. Damn. _He ran his fingers along the smooth pulpous fibers, so soft they felt like fabric. He tilted his head and caught a glimpse of dull white engulfed by the dark grey of his pocket. Dark printing produced hard, linear shadows over the middle crease: **_lson, MD_**.

His breath hitched silently. The forged prescription. He'd forgotten about it over the past few days. The night he'd scrawled Wilson's signature on the small piece of paper, he'd returned home and turned it over in his hand, folding and unfolding it, before slipping it into the pocket of a jacket that hung lazily over the back of the cushion. This morning, it had been the only jacket within reach as he'd left the apartment.

He felt another surge in his thigh and he gripped the paper in a tight fist. He forced his eyes to refocus on the case file. As he attempted to ignore the jolts in his leg, he scanned the pages and settled on a miniscule line of text. Squinting slightly, he leaned his head closer to the page.

"Cuddy missed something," he said. "Here." He lifted a piece of paper from the file and waved it inches away from Chase's nose. His finger traced a tiny line of printed text squished between two larger handwritten notes. "She neglected to mention _that_."

Chase swiped at the page and held it at a readable distance. "Tingling and numbness in the patient's right arm."

"What if the hallucination is unconnected?" Foreman suggested. Meeting an inquisitive silence, he continued, "If she had experimented with drugs, they could have already been out of her system by the time she'd undergone a tox screen. The test would have come back negative, making us think that the hallucination was a symptom—"

"Foreman!" House blinked, holding back imaginary tears. "Basing a theory on no medical proof? I'm so proud." Then, his pretense vanishing, he urged, "Get to the punch line." He and his leg needed to be alone. Soon.

"Assuming the hallucination isn't a symptom, we should test for mercury poisoning," said Foreman.

"Mercury poisoning could cause nausea, seizures, and peripheral numbness," added Chase eagerly.

House bit back his doubts and, after a pause, uttered, "Good. Go." He listened to the flurry of movement as he lowered his head—folders slapped closed, chairs skidded against the carpet, shoes pattered purposefully through the open door of the conference room and into the corridor.

He pressed the heel of his hand into his thigh, his thoughts drifting to the folded square of paper in his pocket. Beams of sunlight, spilling through the vertical blinds behind him, slunk silently across the floor. He quieted the splitting sensation in his leg, eventually easing it into a dull throb. He could hide a throb; he'd had lots of practice.

He stood carefully, gripping the back of his chair for support, before decidedly venturing out of room, towards the elevators and the ground floor.


	3. An Unexpected Phone Call

Disclaimer: Not my property. I don't like lawsuits. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.   
A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback.

**An Unexpected Phone Call**

Wilson bolted for the elevators, trailing behind House. For a cripple, House was capable of moving with surprising speed.

"It's not a race, you know," he said, stepping heavily into the elevator beside House.

"More like a hunt, and you seemed to think it was awfully important to catch me."

Wilson blinked and, like House, rigidly faced the chromed surface of the elevator door. He furrowed his brow slightly, puzzling over the last five minutes.

Wilson had emerged from the Clinic, finishing a follow-up with a recovering prostate cancer patient, and had spied House at the hospital's pharmacy window. Keeping his eye on House, he'd stridden to the nurse's station and deposited his patient's file atop a tall, multicolored tower of sloppily stuffed folders. When the overenthusiastic, young nurse had broken the Clinic's low, monotonous hum with a high-pitched greeting, House had spun around, annoyed. Wilson had met House's eyes and watched him make an immediate lunge for the elevators.

"Bad day?"

Wilson hoped that his question would elicit a sarcastic retort. House's earlier behavior struck him as strange, and a sarcastic reply would, in his mind, re-establish the normal order of things.

House quietly dipped his head and Wilson had to lean over to see his face. House's eyes darted from side to side. Wilson could almost see his brain working.

But House didn't respond. Wilson opted for another approach.

"Look," he said. "Did you want to grab some dinner later tonight?"

House's head snapped up and, for the first time since they'd entered the elevator, he turned to face him. "Jimmy!" He sounded absolutely scandalized. "I'm flattered, but you should know, I don't put out on the first date."

Wilson fought to suppress the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "My last patient gave me these passes, or certificates, or something for this Mexican place on Alexander. Wanna go?"

"What's it called?"

"What? Oh, um," Wilson stammered as he fished around in the pocket of his coat. He felt the elevator heave as it reached the fourth floor. When the door slid open, he stumbled into the corridor, concentrating on retrieving the buried gift certificates. His hand resurfaced with the small bundle of cardstock and he held it in front of his face to read the top copy. "Uh, El…Gapo's?"

House leaned over. "Guapo's."

"Whatever."

"I'll pass. The wait staff looks like they all crawled out of the freak show tent at the circus. They really need to rename it El Feo's."

Wilson scrunched his eyebrows. "What?" He shook off his confusion. "But I can't just not use them." He waved the certificates. "It would be like throwing away free food."

"Ask that nurse to go. What's her name? Mindy?"

"Who?"

"You know, the one in the Clinic that screeches like a barn owl when she's excited."

"Melanie."

"Whatever."

"And she doesn't _screech_. More like squeaks."

"Probably squeals in frequencies only dogs can hear."

Wilson rolled his eyes, sighing.

House's eyes suddenly widened. "Can you imagine what the _sex_ would be like? Mother of God!"

Wilson couldn't help the string of chuckles that escaped his lips. He and House exchanged playful glances as they neared House's office.

As his laughter faded, Wilson heard House's exclamation lingering in the twisting depths of his ears. He felt the cheery, warm flush in his cheeks drain. House, despite his pronounced limp, looked content; the corner of House's mouth curved slightly upwards and his brow was smooth, relaxed. Wilson's gaze dropped heavily to the floor as he gathered his resolve to speak.

"I got an unexpected phone call this morning." Wilson saw familiar lines deepen in House's brow. "It was from—"

"I don't want to see them." He didn't sound angry. "Not yet."

"You've had enough time. The treatment's had enough time."

"So you haven't noticed this _strikingly_ familiar shuffle?" House stopped abruptly, and so did Wilson. House's hand cut through the thickening air, motioning towards his right leg. "Or do you think I've just been practicing for an audition for the next revival of _Chicago_?"

Wilson stood straight, his eyes unwavering from House's increasingly fiery stare. "They want to see you. _She_ wants to see you."

House huffed, but Wilson ignored it. "She hasn't seen you since the surgery. She hasn't seen you _walk_ in—what?—eight years?"

"Yeah, my _mother's_ got it so bad."

"House, she just—"

"I don't want to see them."

"House," Wilson said, keeping his voice calm as House, feigning deafness, turned and took a measured step away from him. Wilson mimicked his movement and reached out, wrapping his hand around House's forearm. He felt the muscle tense against his fingers and caught the involuntary wince that tightened House's features. Wilson redirected House to face him, loosening, but not relinquishing, his hold on House's arm.

"Have you been exercising?"

House expelled a long sigh and dropped his chin to his chest. "The pain's worse."

Wilson nodded and released House's arm, allowing his fingers to slide down and dance across the soft underside of House's wrist. He followed the gentle bob in House's throat and heard a forced swallow.

"I used the cane last night," House added quietly.

Wilson's eyebrows shot up to the gentle sweep of feathered hair that fell onto his forehead. He hadn't expected such an unprompted admission. A pang of guilt struck something in his chest. Last week, he'd pushed House, manipulated him, to work through his aches and pains and continue with his rehab. Now, observing House as he leaned heavily on his left leg, Wilson wondered if he'd pushed a little too hard.

Wilson opened his mouth to reply, but buried the words in his throat when House raised a pair of cerulean eyes to his.

"But I felt better this morning," he said, the words shooting from his mouth in rapid succession. "So I left it back home."

He eyed House skeptically, but pressed his lips together against the words that were brewing on his tongue. He settled on a nod.

Neither of them spoke as they traveled the remaining distance to the glass door of House's office, where his fellows formed a horseshoe around House's desk.

House jabbed a thumb in their direction. "Like trained puppies," he said.

Wilson smirked, watching as House threw open the door and entered the room. As the door drifted closed, tossing Wilson's hair with a small burst of air, he heard the tones of House's voice collide with the piercing noise of the desk telephone.

He peered curiously between the vertical Venetian blinds, feeling kind of like a voyeur, but less dirty. Wilson's eyes tracked House as he leaned over his desk, shedding his jacket, to glance at the phone. Absentmindedly, his gaze traveled from the printed design of House's t-shirt, taut across his chest, to the muscles under the tanned skin of his arms. He paused on a dark purple line on House's forearm, but dismissed his worries in favor of studying the broad line of House's shoulders. Clearly, more than his leg had benefited from daily exercise. Wilson caught himself staring. Maybe he was a dirty voyeur after all.

Wilson blinked, banishing all filthy, voyeuristic thoughts, and channeled his attention to House's inspection of the phone. House had drawn his eyebrows together, and was directing a disgruntled scowl at the digital identification panel. The color in his face shifted from a healthy, sun-kissed bronze to an angry shade of red. If it were possible, thin clouds of smoke might have wafted from House's ears.

Few phone calls, Wilson realized, ever drew such strong reactions from House and it became painfully obvious who waited on the other end of the line. Wilson briefly entertained the idea of scampering back to his office. Even with a head start, he probably wouldn't have the time to beat House to the balcony entrance. After a millisecond's deliberation, he decided that, in the hallway or his office, he'd be forced to face House's tantrum and he'd rather not expend his efforts dashing madly to his door. Sparring with House, Wilson reflected, often required a full reserve of energy.

Wilson locked onto House's glare. Ignoring the confused faces of House's staff, he animatedly motioned towards the phone, encouraging him to answer it. House's lips straightened into such a tight line that they nearly disappeared.

Sighing, Wilson dropped his arms and lumbered to the door. He stuck his head into the room. "Just answer it, for God's sake."

"You told her to call!" House pointed at him.

Wilson shook his head, casting apologetic glances to each of House's fellows. The phone noisily continued to cut through the uncomfortable silence.

"Don't you have to tell anyone that they're dying?" House's thick sarcasm blasted past the three bodies between the two of them.

Wilson nodded toward the phone. "It wouldn't kill you, you know. She just wants to talk." He jerked his head back into the corridor, shooting House a stony stare, before he retreated to his office.

When he fell into his desk chair, his head throbbed with the loud, piercing echoes of a ringing telephone.


	4. Technical Knockout

Disclaimer: Not my property. I don't like lawsuits. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.  
A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback.  
**  
Technical Knockout**

If House had to probe another vagina before lunch, something in his brain would explode and splatter slippery gray matter all over the floor behind him. He slammed a patient file on the counter of the nurse's station and miserably jutted his hand toward the nurse for another.

She glanced nervously at him, timidly placing a folder in his open palm, and squeaked in a tiny, meek voice, "Exam room two, Dr. House."

Without pausing to scan the file's contents, he stalked to the door and swung it open with a force rivaled only by a category five hurricane. The door collided with its stopper and he met a swirling vortex of refreshing, cool air. As he crossed just beyond the threshold, he browsed the file in his hands, announcing, "Hello. I'm Dr. House."

"I know, dear."

His head violently snapped up. His eyes, bulging and widened to the size of small planets, spun in his head and fell upon a sandy-haired woman perched comfortably on the narrow exam table, smiling warmly. Her sandaled feet swung lazily above the linoleum tile and her hands rested atop a cornflower blue, knee-length skirt. She wore a matching, beaded necklace that hung over a tasteful, cream blouse. Her eyes glowed with the same radiance as her smile, ignoring or oblivious to House's frozen silence.

House felt a strong compulsion to walk straight out the door, hover in the waiting area for a few moments, and will his mother back to the outdated décor of her living room. He'd rather deal with a stupid, horny teenager who wanted a prescription for birth control pills, or a sixty-year-old with a herpes outbreak. Hell, he'd take another repulsing series of infected vaginas. But his feet, suddenly and inexplicably cemented to the floor, anchored him in his place.

The sour taste of shock pooled heavily on his tongue. He rolled the dry, leaden mass of tongue in his mouth, pushing sticky saliva over his teeth, before stammering a response. "What...Why are you here?"

"To see you, of course," she chimed.

"No," House said, his hands waving in front of him. "I mean, why are you _here_? Are you sick? Because, if you are, I don't think I could be properly objective about—"

"Does a mother need an excuse to see her boy?"

House's entire body went impossibly rigid. Shoulder muscles tensed sharply. Blood thundered furiously against his ear drums and his chest constricted tightly, purging air from his lungs.

In the far corner, his father rose slowly from a short, wheeled stool. Peering over the top of his mother's head, House met a firm glare. His father held his chin high, his head aligning with a straight back. Ironed short sleeves revealed tattoos—military souvenirs—on forearms that hung evenly at his sides. Father and son stood like two boxers in opposite corners of a ring, eyes alert and ears listening for the metallic clang of the bell.

Polished shoes stepped from the opposite corner and, in several long strides, his father advanced to the door to push it closed. House focused on a detailed poster of the human respiratory system and reminded himself to draw full breaths. His father's face loomed, large and blurry, in the recesses of his vision. Steady, cool breaths streamed across his cheekbone and dried his eye, forcing him to blink rapidly. He silently hoped that his European hiker would have another seizure, or go into cardiac arrest—anything that would send his beeper into a noisy frenzy at his hip and present a clear escape route.

His father's deep, rough drawl clawed at his ear. "We heard about your recovery. _Wilson_ told your mother."

Jab number one. His eyes flickered to his mother, whose face was lowered to fidgeting hands in her lap. His insides twisted.

As his father leaned closer, House stubbornly held his body still. The voice near his ear spoke in a sandpaper whisper. "Must be habit that keeps you hunched over." He felt a hard knee nudge his right leg. "Straighten up."

House inhaled sharply through gritted teeth as he shifted weight onto his right leg. He ignored the burning flare of pain in his thigh and he drew himself up, straightening his legs, squaring his shoulders. He'd take care of his leg later.

Stepping into the line of House's stare, his father spoke through a grin that curled his mouth. "Look taller than you have in years."

"I grew three inches, you know. Didn't Wilson tell you?" House's heart crashed against the center of his chest.

The frowning face of his mother peeked at him from behind his father's shoulder. "He's only trying to encourage you, Greg," she said, her voice soft, as she slid from the table. One of her hands smoothed a lapel of his jacket. "You look so handsome when you aren't slouched."

House caught his father's nod. He watched his father snake an inky arm around her shoulders, bribing the referee. His mother smiled weakly at him.

He eyed the opposite corner of the room, desperately wanting space. His leg throbbed, his knee trembling with a strained effort to support him. He doubted that he could cross the room without showing off his limp, and he didn't want to endure another round of his father's relentless taunts.

Stepping backwards with his right foot, he backed against the wall and added a few feet of space between him and his parents. His mother's frown deepened.

"You could have visited my office," House said. "You know where it—"

"We wanted it to be a surprise." His mother extracted herself from his father's grip and stepped across the open space to sandwich one of his hands in hers. She glided her fingers along the back of his hand and the touch was soothing.

House bowed his head and spoke to her in a relaxed tone. "I still would have been surprised."

His father interjected, "You probably wouldn't even have been there. You haven't been there to answer your phone."

House shot him an icy glare. In truth, he'd been avoiding his office. He'd even held a differential in an abandoned conference room on the second floor to spare his ears the incessant ringing.

"We just wanted to make sure that we'd get to see you," his mother said, patting his hand before releasing it. She turned her eyes to peer up at him, adding, "We didn't want to upset you."

He swallowed. His mind tried to conjure a reply, but he opened his mouth dumbly. Wordlessly, he bent down to accept a hug from her. Short arms wrapped around to his back and rubbed lightly, a gesture from his childhood.

"I'm happy to see you again," she said, pulling away and rejoining his father.

Another nod from his father. "And I'm proud to see that you're finally standing on your own two feet again."

House's jaw tightened, teeth pressing hard against one another. The effects of his mother's calming gestures vanished and lines cut deeply into his brow. When he spoke, his voice boomed. "You're _proud_?"

His father motioned to his leg. "First time we've seen you without that cane since—"

"You know," he spat, creeping along the wall, his hand reaching blindly for the door knob. "You weren't _proud_ when I finished medical school."

"Greg, honey." He ignored his mother's faint plea, still groping the door.

"You're not _proud_ about the work I do."

"Dear, please. Your father's just—"

"No, you're _proud_ when I take a couple bullets, because that's the reason I can walk—how did you say it?—on my own two feet."

"Greg—"

"I'm sorry, Mom," he said, finding the door knob and twisting. His chest heaved as he swung open the door, passed through the frame, and pulled the door shut.

His thigh protested his hard, heavy steps as he stormed to the nurse's station. He slashed at the stack of patient files, scattering them in a mess of loose papers. He offered no explanation to the cowering nurse behind the counter and spun abruptly on his heel, his chest colliding with a firm, outstretched palm.

Dark curls framed a pair of questioning, fiery eyes. "What's going on?" Cuddy hissed.

"A family reunion, apparently," he said, nodding to the exam room window.

House felt Cuddy's hand slide from his chest as she turned in the direction of the window. His father had led his mother the exam table, where she sat, withered, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of a tissue.

Cuddy stuttered, "Why...what are...did you..."

"Oh, don't pretend you're surprised," he said, rolling his eyes. "You knew when I'd be here. Wilson knew they wanted to see me. It's the perfect set-up."

Cuddy gaped incredulously at him. "I didn't _plan_ this."

House scoffed, expelling a puff of air.

"House, I didn't know they were here."

"But you knew I'd be here. Wilson could have—"

Cuddy threw her hands into the air, waving them wildly. "I'm not _conspiring_ with Wilson. He knows where to find the Clinic's schedule. He doesn't need me for that."

"Sure, he doesn't _need_ you for that, but—"

"I didn't plan this!" Her voice reached the waiting area, distracting its occupants from their magazines and murmured conversations. Cuddy dropped her voice to a stern whisper. "Now, stop making a scene in my Clinic."

For a long moment, House returned her stare, eyes boring into hers. Then, he turned and lumbered for the exit.

He heard Cuddy call after him. "House, you still have an hour left."

Breathing hard through his nostrils, he refused to acknowledge her. With both hands, he pushed forcefully against the door and propelled himself toward the elevators, his steps sending shocking, burning jolts through the length of his leg.


	5. Peace Offering

Disclaimer: Not my property. I don't like lawsuits. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.  
A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback.

**Peace Offering**

Wilson spent his entire lunch in his office, listening for the metallic twist of the doorknob. On his desk, one half of his turkey sandwich lay atop its wrinkled paper wrapper, untouched. His hand dipped into a bag of Lays as he occupied himself with the results of a recent drug trial. He distractedly plowed through a sizable bit of the study before he heard movement outside of his office. Wilson hid his face behind the fan of papers in his hand, listening intently, and braced himself for an unrestrained storm of fury. 

"What were you thinking?"

Wilson's brow furrowed, confused. _That's funny_, he thought. He'd expected the voice of fury to be deeper. Low, booming, God-like. He peeked over the top of his papers. Cuddy scowled at him from the open doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. _Huh. This is a surprise, _he mused silently, fighting the twitch in his eyebrow and struggling to maintain his façade of nonchalance.

Cuddy's stare, he reflected, could have frozen alcohol. Wilson listened to his resolve leave him in a heavy, resigned sigh. He tossed his papers onto the desk, covered his face with his hands, and asked wearily, "What did he do?"

"What did _you_ do?" She pushed the door shut with her foot and paced a steady line across the room.

"I just _nudged_ him. Made him do what he was too childish to do for himself." he said, gesticulating in the direction of House's office. "House doesn't want to face the possibility that things are finally turning around. He thinks that if he admits that he's healthy, that the pain's finally gone, then he'll regress. Get worse all over again. It's always about—"

"He _is _getting worse!"

"His mother's been trying to reach him for weeks. He's done everything he can to avoid her."

"And you don't think that he might have had a good reason? He's getting worse. The treatment's failing."

Wilson dug his elbow into his desk. Frustrated, he rubbed the creases in his forehead.

Cuddy sank into the chair opposite his desk. "I know House avoids his parents more than the Clinic, and I wish he'd grow up." She paused before continuing in a gentler tone, "But if he really didn't think he was ready—"

Wilson interrupted her with a stiff laugh. "He's never ready!" The anger in his voice surprised him as the words poured from his mouth, unfiltered and unrestrained. "He's never ready to put aside his own selfish needs and, just once, think about someone else. Someone who cares about him. Someone—"

"Like you?"

Anger quickly gave way to self-conscious paranoia. He faltered, blinking rapidly. For a long, terrifying second, his voice refused to work properly and his jaw fell uselessly in shocked silence. He cleared his throat, his mind stammering over words and broken phrases. Finally, he managed, "What? No. _No._ This isn't about me. You think this is about me?"

"When you agreed to slip his parents into the Clinic, you weren't just thinking of House." Cuddy flashed a satisfied smile. It reminded him of House.

"Well, I just thought that he needed to—wait." In his head, the echoes of Cuddy's words interrupted his reply.

"He needed to wait?"

Wilson swatted dismissively at her. "You said 'parents'. Plural?"

"Yeah," she said, crossing her legs. "Why?"

"His dad was there?"

"Yeah. That's probably why House's ears were smoking when he walked out."

Realization flooded his brain. He imagined House, cornered in the exam room like a wounded animal, fighting off subtle, condescending remarks with a stoic expression. Wilson caught his head in his hands; it was suddenly too heavy for his neck muscles to support. He hunched over the desk and pushed the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids. When he dropped his arms to the desk, crumpling papers, his eyes fell upon the uneaten half of his sandwich. His heart lurched.

"What?" Cuddy asked.

Wilson's hands fidgeted with a pen. "I snuck his _mother_ into the Clinic. She said John had gone fishing." He shook his head, disgusted.

Silence settled over the room. Wilson stared, his eyes unfocused, through the glass door to his balcony. The hard edges of each brick softened, blurry shapes and textures forming a collection of pocked, stained sea sponges. A fuzzy line of color streaked from the balcony and captured his attention. Another projectile, small and round, sailed over the exterior wall. Arching a curious eyebrow, Wilson stood and craned his neck to see beyond the tall, dividing wall. A wispy tuft of hair hovered just below the top of the wall.

Wilson scurried from behind his desk, scooping up his sandwich. He threw Cuddy a mumbled apology and didn't wait for her to leave before he stepped into the hot afternoon air. He squinted in the bright sunlight. Choking down a humid breath, he tugged at his collar. The sizzling heat of the merciless, mid-August sunbeams, he decided, was a good match for a high-powered sauna.

As he approached the divider, he called to the figure hidden behind the barrier, "House? What are you doing out here? It must be close to a hundred degrees."

House didn't answer. Still squinting, Wilson leaned into the corner of his balcony to observe House. House sat in a low, folding lawn chair, dressed in a dark, long sleeve button-down. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down the side of his face. Wilson's casual observation evolved into an absentminded stare. His eyes followed the thin, glistening trails of sweat, travelling down House's neck to the narrow "v" of exposed skin at the open collar of his shirt.

"Aren't you hot?" Wilson chuckled inwardly. He was sure that House would jump on the double-entendre, but House didn't take the bait. Tiny missiles—pebbles and balled scraps of paper—continued to trace the same suicidal path from the building, launching into the air one after another.

"You might hit someone with those, you know," Wilson commented flatly, pointing to House's fistful of ammunition. Nothing, except an increase in House's firing rate.

Wilson held the sandwich over the divider. "You want this?"

House ceased fire and scrutinized Wilson's offering.

"I left my arsenic and cyanide at home. It's safe." Wilson sighed as House turned away and resumed bombing innocent passers-by below. He set the sandwich on the divider. A few minutes passed in silence. Wilson was about to return to the air-conditioned haven of his office when House finally spoke.

"You set me up."

Wilson considered lying. If House hadn't run into Cuddy, he might have been able to do it. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he said, "Yes."

House's eyes hardened.

"But it was only supposed to be your mother," he added.

"They've been married for forty-eight years. My mother never goes anywhere without him, except the supermarket and hair salon," spat House.

"All you had to do was answer the phone, House."

"I told you I didn't want to see them!" House slammed a fist against his left thigh.

For the first time that afternoon, Wilson looked House fully in the face. The skin under his eyes sagged and the corners of his mouth drooped into a frown. Wilson studied a dark, encrusted line that extended from House's hair onto the right side of his forehead. Wilson had seen enough blood in his life to recognize it.

"You and your dad, you two didn't fight, did you?"

House's eyebrows sunk together. "What?" he asked harshly.

"Your head," Wilson said, touching the corresponding spot high on his own forehead. "Did you have a—"

"Hot night of rough sex? Oh, yeah."

Wilson blinked and snapped his mouth closed. He was used to House's stinging sarcasm, the terse replies, and the insensitivity. Sometimes, despite his expectations, Wilson found himself stunned to the point of speechlessness. He _knew_ that House hadn't spent the night in the throes of wild sex, but he struggled to shake the images swimming behind his eyes. House's fingers digging into pale flesh as he slammed, over and over, into a faceless body. Fingernails clawing his back, his neck, his head, drawing blood. The curve of House's back. The hard lines of House's tense, straining muscles. Wilson became uncomfortably aware of the sweat on his body and raised his arm to mop at his face.

His gaze returned to the congealed cut on House's head. If House hadn't gotten in a fistfight with his father, then, Wilson reasoned, he must have fallen. He must have tripped in the hall, or his office. Hit his head against a cart or the edge of his desk.

"Did you fall?" he asked.

"No." House's cold tone made Wilson flinch slightly.

A memory surfaced in Wilson's brain and the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. "You had a bruise on your arm yesterday."

House looked down. "Go away," he said.

"It looked bad. What happened?"

The door to House's office opened and both men twisted to see Foreman leaning into the sunlight. "Results are back. No mercury poisoning," he said, before ducking back inside.

Wilson regarded House as he tried to stand. He roughly pushed his body out of the chair with his arms. House winced when his weight transferred to his legs and he stumbled into the dividing wall.

"If your leg is worse, I can write you a prescription," Wilson said.

House sounded venomous. "I don't need it."

Wilson raised his hands and stepped back from the wall. House, bent over the divider, raised his head and directed him an icy glare. After a moment, House dropped his eyes to Wilson's sandwich. A smirk played at the corner of Wilson's lips as House swiped the sandwich from the divider, took an enormous bite, and hobbled into his office.


	6. Lunch Meeting

Disclaimer: Not my property. I don't like lawsuits. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.  
A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback.

**Lunch Meeting**

"Your sandwich tasted like tree bark," House proclaimed the next afternoon, bursting into Wilson's office.

Hunched over a mountain of unfinished paperwork, Wilson threw House a fleeting glance. He'd spent most of his morning reviewing a renewal application for his liability insurance, constantly plagued by interruptions—meetings with patients, consult requests, regular visits from House. Wilson had managed to unceremoniously push House into the hallway, finally threatening to jab House through the eye with his tiny Wite-Out brush if he came back without a legitimate medical concern. House had returned, spouting a fabricated medical dilemma, fifteen minutes later.

"If you were really sorry," House continued, "you would have at least saved me the whole thing."

"I thought you said it tasted like tree bark." Wilson scribbled his signature across the thick line at the bottom of the page.

"The other half might have tasted like juicy, hickory-smoked turkey. But I'll never know."

Wilson rolled his eyes, setting his pen on the desk.

"You only gave me a scrap of the bark. A real peace offering would have included the whole tree. If we'd have been Indians—"

For the next five minutes, Wilson entertained images of House in a feather headdress and leather moccasins while House delivered an undoubtedly well-rehearsed argument, which culminated in his demand for a proper lunch.

At one o'clock, the hospital cafeteria bustled. A myriad of noises and aromas assaulted Wilson as he pushed open the door, allowing House to enter first. He stood beside House in the crowded line, compiling a salad for himself.

As he topped his salad with cucumber slices, Wilson said, "Should I expect to buy you dinner, too? Or would you prefer if I hit the plains and speared us our very own buffalo?"

House snorted and said pointedly, "You throw like a girl." House loaded a plate with curly fries and placed an order for a sandwich.

"So I'll cheat." Wilson bypassed the fries, but ordered his own sandwich. Then, he added, "I'll use a rifle."

"I think my dad left his at home, but I hear Foreman keeps a good handgun in his locker." House grinned, swiping a baby carrot from Wilson's salad.

Wilson forcibly mirrored his grin; he didn't verbalize a reply. He felt a mixture of annoyance and regret at the mention of House's father. He was acutely aware of House's ability to exploit a guilty conscience and he knew that House had referenced his father on purpose. The heavy unease that had settled near Wilson's stomach cleared when a gruff voice announced their completed order, two gloved hands extending a pair of wrapped, warm sandwiches over the counter.

They accepted their sandwiches from the grill cook, smiling their thanks. Wilson pushed his tray toward the register, his hand diving into his pocket for his wallet, while House wordlessly stepped out of line. Wilson retrieved his wallet and shuffled through several bills.

"I'm paying for him, too," he said, addressing an unsmiling woman behind the register. He pointed toward House, who now stood at the soda fountain, sipping rising foam from the top of his cup. Wilson paused, watching fizzing bubbles gather on House's upper lip, and allowed himself a private, affectionate smile.

"Sir?"

Wilson pivoted his head sharply to face the cashier. "I'm sorry," he said. "How much?"

"Ten-fifty."

He nodded, handing her a crisp twenty dollar bill. Wilson peeked over his shoulder and spotted House limping through the dining area, his plate shifting precariously on the tray. After accepting his change, Wilson followed House to a small, round table near the doors.

Wilson slid into a seat opposite House, resuming earlier conversation. "So, since buffalo's clearly out, what about regular, old-fashioned cow for dinner? I could pick up some steaks on the way."

"Can't," said House between bites of his sandwich.

Wilson speared a cherry tomato. "You can't? Can't what?"

"Can't play host tonight. Big date."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "You never play host, and a date? What, with a hooker?"

"Not a hooker. A real date."

Wilson's fork halted en route to his mouth, a piece of lettuce dangling from one of the prongs. For a minute, he stared stupidly at House. "You don't have a date," he finally said, though not as conclusively as he'd intended.

House stuffed his mouth full of curly fries, purposefully rendering himself incapable of speech. Wilson noticed a smug sparkle in his eyes.

"You don't have a date," he said, his voice firmer. He wagged a finger at House. "You don't go on dates. And even if you did, you wouldn't just _tell_ me that you have a date. And if you _did_ tell me that you have a date, it just means that you really _don't_ have a date, but you want me to _think_ you do."

A wicked grin slowly spread across House's face.

Wilson's heart fluttered, his chest burning with nervous curiosity. "Where are you going?" he asked, spilling the words quickly, before he could suppress them in his throat.

House swallowed a mouthful of his sandwich. "A concert in Fine Hall, on the other side of the campus."

"I know where it is," Wilson said, stabbing at his salad. He caught House's raised eyebrow. Trying to maintain an air of casual interest, Wilson asked, "What kind of music?"

"Collection of some of Handel's oratorios."

"Some of those have Biblical themes, you know." He lowered his head over his plate, counting the number of sesame seeds on his sandwich roll. Wilson attempted to close his mind to thoughts of House, eyes closed, engulfed in music, an arm around a pair of shoulders, or a hand resting high on a thigh.

House scoffed and, fingering a fry, he replied, "If sitting through a musical version of the King _James_—" Wilson's eyes narrowed at the emphasis. "—means I get to take her home and spread her legs—"

Wilson's sharp, harsh laugh cut through House's sentence. "Using religious music to get laid," Wilson quipped. "That has to be some kind of sin. And, as much as that sounds like you, I don't believe it. You're going to go home tonight, drain a bottle of scotch, and pass out on the couch."

"It's interesting," House mused. Wilson's eyes, unwavering and guarded, locked onto House's. "That you don't want me to have a date."

Silence hung between them as they held each other's unblinking stares. Finally, Wilson said, "I just know that you don't—"

Suddenly, the unwelcome, shrill call of a beeper sounded from House's hip. Wilson sighed, rubbing a hand along the ridge of his brow. The alarm ceased as House brought the beeper to his face to read the message on its digital panel.

"I've got to go," House announced, pushing his chair away from the table.

Wilson stood abruptly, blocking House's direct route to the doors. "They can't handle it?"

House directed him a stony glare, a silent demand to let him pass. Wilson sighed heavily, waving his arm in the direction of the doors as he moved aside. As he shifted his weight to turn back toward the table, he heard a faint grunt and saw House, arms outstretched to catch himself as his body crumpled towards the floor. In one swift motion, Wilson lunged and slid his arms underneath House's, curling them around House's shoulders to pull him upright. Wilson grimaced when House's fingers dug deeply into the muscles near his shoulder blade. Staggering under House's weight, he anchored his feet. He held House firmly against his body, his own hands pressing against the tense muscles in House's shoulders.

For a moment, they were still. House's head rested on Wilson's shoulder, the heat of his labored breaths spilling onto Wilson's neck and past the collar of his shirt. Wilson felt his heart rise into his throat, beating wildly. One of his hands dropped to House's back, tracing soothing circles. He felt one of House's fists rhythmically squeeze the fabric of his shirt. Twisting his head to the side, Wilson brushed his nose against strands of hair at the back of House's head, inhaling soundlessly. House smelled fresh and earthy, like a forest after a rain, and Wilson trailed his hand up House's back and placed a tentative touch on the nape of House's neck. Goosebumps raised under the pads of his fingers.

"Are you all right?" Wilson whispered with an unsteady voice.

Releasing his grip on Wilson's shirt, House pushed himself backwards. He averted his eyes to their shoes. "Foot fell asleep," he said hoarsely.

Wilson nodded, understanding that House's foot hadn't fallen asleep at all. He exhaled shakily and watched as House took tiny, hesitant steps out of the cafeteria. When House disappeared from view, Wilson sunk heavily into his chair and leaned his head into the concave of his hands. His fingertips carried faint traces of House's smell. Hidden behind his hands, his eyes fell closed. He'd been inches, seconds, away from brushing his lips against House's ear, his whispered concern still on his tongue. The raised bumps, the undeniable physical response, on House's skin had sent his heart into a wild frenzy. He'd never felt so compelled to kiss House, tenderly, anywhere his mouth would reach.

Standing, he shook his head. Wilson glanced toward the doors, tracing the path of House's uneven, uncertain steps. The heavy weight of crushing disappointment descended on his chest. Despite its immediate, promising results, the ketamine had failed. The echo of House's soft, pained grunt hung in Wilson's ears.

Suddenly, flashes of images—House's purple bruise, his congealed cut, his familiar, crooked stride—strung together to form a tight, unfailing explanation. Intent on returning to his office, Wilson resumed clearing the table. He'd been hurriedly stuffing a crinkled sandwich wrapper into House's cup when a strong, friendly voice startled him.

"Need some company?"

His eyes rose to meet Cuddy, who stood beside the table, a shiny Fuji apple in her hand. Wilson forced a smile.

"I was just finishing." He gestured to the neat pile of dirty plates.

"Oh," she said. "All right." When she moved towards the doors, Wilson called her back.

She stepped closer, raising her eyebrows expectantly at him.

Wilson weighed his words before he spoke. "Have you noticed anything strange, physically, about House lately?"

"Besides the limp?"

"Besides the limp."

She shook her head, curls dancing across her shoulders. "No, but I haven't seen much of him. Not close, anyway. Why?"

"He's had bruises, cuts," he said. "I've only seen a couple. I'm worried that there's more. I'm worried—" Wilson paused, closing his eyes and exhaling forcefully. "I'm worried that the pain's back, and that he's hurting himself, trying to channel the pain away from his leg."

Cuddy considered his theory. She sighed. "It wouldn't be the first time," she admitted.

Wilson weaved his fingers into his hair. His muscles in his back still ached where House had embedded strong fingers. "He needs a prescription."

"For Vicodin?"

"Unless you think that he should keep hurting himself," Wilson snapped.

Cuddy dropped her eyes to the waxy surface of her apple. Her fingers toyed with the stem. "Okay," she muttered, her voice soft and resigned.

"I'll write the prescription," he said, promptly leaving the table. He deposited the stack of dirty trays on a conveyor belt that lead into the kitchen and exited the cafeteria, walking stiffly toward his office.

As Wilson strode purposefully to his office, his thoughts returned to House. He rarely endorsed House's pill-popping habit, but he felt that, this time, it was necessary. The resurrection of House's drug dependency would be acceptable if it halted the appearances of obvious, bodily injuries. Wilson knew that he wasn't prepared to see House return to an emergency room to engage in another fight with death.

When Wilson finally arrived at his office door, hand twisting the door knob, he heard his desk phone ringing. He entered the room, not bothering to round his desk and sit before lifting the phone's receiver from its cradle.

Cuddy spoke frantically, skipping casual greetings. "Did you give him that prescription?"

"No. I haven't even—"

"Don't."

"Why? I thought—"

"He's already on it."

"What?" Wilson shifted his feet nervously. His brow furrowed.

"I checked the pharmacy records. He filled a prescription for Vicodin on Monday morning."

"Who wrote for him?"

A heavy silence fell from the phone. Finally, her voice crashed into his ear. "You did."


	7. Scavenger Hunt

Disclaimer: Not my property. I don't like lawsuits. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.  
A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." This chapter has a MA rating due to language and sex, which features some _very light_, "practical" bondage, if there is such a thing. I welcome concrit and feedback.**  
**

**Scavenger Hunt**

Wilson tore the phone away from his ear, his fingers tightly clenching the plastic, and a hot, angry flush rising into his cheeks. His body moved dumbly, like a broken marionette, as he replaced the phone in its cradle. He braced himself against his desk with a trembling hand, his chest churning with bubbling, burning anger.

Staggering on the edge of rationality, he lurched heavily toward the door and barreled into the corridor in search of House. When he threw open the door of House's office, his eyes fell onto the back of the room's lone occupant and words erupted from his mouth like fluorescent sprays of lava.

"What the _fuck _were you thinking? _Forging_ my _fucking _signature, when all you had to do—"

Wilson choked on his words as the figure turned its head, covered with sweeping layers of straw-yellow hair, and stared at him.

"Oh, shit, Chase. Sorry, I thought you were—"

"House, yeah. I figured." Chase lowered his eyes to a photograph in his hand. Fields of farmland crowded the glossy image and Chase studied it with interest.

Wilson took advantage of Chase's preoccupation to draw a few full, calming breaths. He bottled his boiling rage, storing it in a dark recess of his brain. "Where is everybody?" Wilson asked, trying to appear poised and nonchalant. He failed spectacularly, his voice as smooth as a crackling phonograph record.

Chase grinned and arched an eyebrow at him, apparently understanding that Wilson had no genuine interest in the whereabouts of the other fellows. Wilson watched as the photograph sailed from Chase's fingertips to House's desk and coasted between the loose pages of an open journal. "Cameron's in the lab. Foreman went to watch our patient's surgery and House," Chase paused to toss a handful of unopened envelopes in the trashcan, "went with him."

Wilson nodded and backpedaled toward the door. "Thanks," he mumbled, hurtling himself out the door and toward the stairs.

The air whipped at his face as he rushed down the stairs. Nearing the operating rooms, he stopped a passing surgeon to inquire about House's patient.

"Aufero's stuck with that one, thank God. I can't stand House breathing down my neck. Room three."

Wilson skipped several steps as he climbed to the observation deck. His eyes fruitlessly scanned the room for House, his carefully corked anger threatening to explode. His gaze settled on Foreman, who stood with his arms crossed, gazing through the thick layer of Plexiglas into the operating room below.

Wilson moved into the room, joining Foreman near the window. Nurses and surgeons gathered around a young woman's rotting foot. House wasn't among them. Wilson blew past casual conversation; he knew Foreman appreciated directness. "Where's House?"

"Cameron paged him about fifteen minutes ago. Said it was urgent."

Wilson didn't thank Foreman as he bolted from the room. His sudden appearance in the lab startled Cameron, forcing her to drop a glass slide onto the floor. Wilson hovered within the threshold, one leg planted outside of the room. Unsurprisingly, Cameron was alone.

"Where is he?"

"House?"

"Who else?"

"What did he do?"

Wilson sighed. This wasn't her business. "Something bad. Where is he?"

Cameron glared at him. "I'm not sure," she said, her voice thick with defiance.

Wilson scowled. "Cameron, I need to know." He watched as she crossed her arms over her chest, shifting her weight. Glass crunched beneath her shoes. "It's important."

"What did he do?"

His fingers massaged his temple as he released a puff of air. He didn't have time for games. "He forged a prescription. I need to find him."

"A Vicodin prescription?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and nodded.

Cameron uncrossed her arms. Her tone was softer when she spoke. "He said he needed a shower. He had his bag with him. He probably wasn't lying."

The glass door was nearly closed when Wilson returned to wedge his foot between the jam and the door. He stuck his head back into the room. "Keep it to yourself, Cameron," he warned, and left her to clean the shimmering floor.

As Wilson stalked stiff-kneed to the locker room, his ears drowned out the noise of the hospital. Over the rapid patter of his shoes, he heard the distinct hiss of his own breath cascading past his grinding teeth. He felt ridiculous, like Elmer Fudd trailing Bugs Bunny, engrossed in an infuriating, pointless hunt. Pointless, because Bugs Bunny always won, escaped by the skin of his big, sneaky teeth to cram bushels of stolen carrots down his skinny throat.

When Wilson silently pushed open the door of the locker room, a thin cloud of steam enveloped his face. Aside from the occasional drip of fat water droplets against the wet tiles, the room was still and quiet. The metallic smell of pipes mingled with the flowery scents of soap and shampoo. Fluorescent lights beat cold light against the aquamarine walls. Wilson exhaled a lungful of air and slumped onto the nearest bench, leaning back against the cool metal surface of a tall locker. He rammed the back of his head against the door, his body tense with frustration.

Throughout their friendship, Wilson had learned to accept certain things about House: his refusal to do housework; his habit of casually stealing food; the constant monitoring of Wilson's love life; his inability to ask for anything. Now, despite it all, Wilson listened to the torturous dripping of the showerhead as anger flared in his chest, and he found himself wishing that House had just _asked _him, one _fucking _time, for a prescription, for help.

House had always taken, snatched anything he wanted. He'd never _asked. _Wilson rolled his head, pressing hard, against the locker door. He gritted his teeth and, when he exhaled, a small, strangled noise seeped from his mouth. It echoed in the tiny room and Wilson bit his tongue. When he closed his eyes, a ghostly image of House's smug, arrogant face imprinted itself in the blackness.

He wanted to scream, to yell and shout and curse at that face. Shove House against the wall and scream at him for refusing to ask one easy, simple fucking question. Close a fist around the fabric of House's wrinkled shirt and dig his knuckles into the muscles of House's chest. Lean into House's body and trap him there. Hover his face an inch—a fucking centimeter—from House's, the tips of their eyelashes tangling, his mouth hurling hot breath and fiery words onto House's skin. Not stopping until House _asked. _

Wilson felt a stir in his groin. He squeezed his eyes tighter. No. No, he was _angry_. Fucking furious.

Behind his eyelids, House's chest heaved against his fist. His own hand opened and trailed a fast path down House's body and under his shirt. Wilson's fingernails scraped against trembling skin, pulling at the tight curls of chest hair. House breathed loudly and deep incoherent noises slipped from his lips, but he didn't speak. Wilson bit an earlobe as his hands unfastened House's jeans and shoved them to the floor. House's hands pressed against his shoulders, wordlessly trying to push him away. Wilson wrestled with him, loosening his tie with one hand. He forced House's weight onto his damaged leg and grabbed House's wrists, securing them behind his back and binding them with his tie.

House grunted when Wilson threw him back against the wall, the hard slap of skin reverberating in the room. Wilson gripped House's cock, which hardened fully with a few forceful pumps of his fist. House's eyes closed.

_Ask me. _

Wilson tugged at the purple head, listening for words among House's breathy cries.

_Ask me. Ask me, House. _

Wilson sank to his knees. His hands held House's hips still as his mouth engulfed House's cock. He slid his teeth along the shaft, biting at the slick tip and making House flinch. He tongued the slit, pressing against it, tasting. Beneath his hands, flinches turned to desperate, needy thrusts and Wilson dug his fingertips into House's hips, stilling the movements.

House's voice was muddy and ragged. _Wilson, please…_

Wilson let his mouth drop from House's cock. _Ask me. _

_I need you to—_

_Ask me. _

_Can you—_House paused to swallow—_fuck me? _Wilson's eyes met House's heavily lidded gaze. _Please? _

Wilson's eyes flew open. He leaped from the bench to stand, his legs shaky underneath him. Pacing to the opposite wall, he measured his breaths and fought to stifle his visions of House, pressed half-naked against the tiles.

He suddenly halted in front of an open shower stall. His breath caught in his lungs as his eyes fell on a watery pool around the drain. Bright red colored the water, swirling along the lip of the drain.

Wilson approached the stall and braced himself against the doorframe as he leaned forward. Small red drops dotted the tiles near the metal soap dish. His heart raced. Short strands of matted hair were caught on the sharp corner of the dish. His stomach gave a sickening twist as he stared from the hair to the blood still swirling at a hypnotic pace.

His hand clapped over his mouth, repressing a heave, and he turned in place. Breathing hard, he scanned the room. His heart lurched into the back of his throat when he spied a black blazer hanging in the corner—House's black blazer. His eyes darted from the blazer to the shower, hoping like hell that the blood wasn't House's.

He staggered to the other stalls, throwing them open, checking for signs of use. All of the others were dry. He stared at House's blazer, the shower, the benches, and chastised himself for his anger and his fantasy, for overlooking _this. _

Clutching House's blazer, he stumbled out the door. His shoes squeaked across the clean hospital floors as he reviewed his catalogue of House's known hiding places, the forged prescription forgotten, trying to decide which one to search first.


	8. Resistance

Disclaimer: Sadly, I can claim no ownership over these characters.  
A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback.

**Resistance**

House blamed it on the goddamn soap.

He had stood under the water, his face finally relaxed, his lungs filled with dense, soothing air. Mid-way through his shower, his fingers, covered with a frothy layer of bubbles, had fumbled the bar of soap as he'd reached out to replace it in its dish. He'd shuffled his feet as the bar skidded across the tiles and he'd slipped. The sharp edge of the soap dish had cut into the back of his head and he'd vaguely felt the rip of flesh and hair as he'd crashed into the corner of the stall.

Now, he held his knees to his chest and grimaced against the jolts of pain, eyes squeezed shut against the shower's spray. He didn't see the blood until he lowered his forehead to his knees and glanced at the perfect network of tan squares. Red, soapy water rushed toward the drain, washing over his feet and the eroding bar of soap. His fingers searched his head and found the oozing cut, a crooked line near the bottom of his skull. He felt dizzy and grasped the support bar on the opposite wall, straining to pull himself up, one hand held firmly against his head.

When he lumbered out of the stall, he didn't bother to dress. He swiped a towel from the rack, wrapped it around his waist, and slung his bag over his shoulder before retreating to a supply closet outside of the locker room. He ripped open a roll of brown, industrial paper towels and pressed a hastily folded bundle against his head. He swapped the stained paper towels for clean ones until the blood finally begun to clot and dry and he sat down wearily on an overturned bucket, listening to water drip from his body to the floor.

The throb in his head deadened the ache in his leg, but the leg still trembled with the effort of clamoring out of the shower and into the closet. He inhaled the smell of ammonia and latex, his nose wrinkling, but his brain welcoming the pungent distraction. He closed his eyes, breathing in chemicals and stale air, until the pain in his head faded and the ache in his leg flared.

When he emerged from the closet, he returned to the locker room, blinking against the onslaught of light. He pulled his clothes from his backpack and dressed, pausing when he realized his blazer was missing. _Damn thieving janitors. _He huffed and crept into the corridor with his bag, steadied by one hand against the wall. He hobbled to the fourth floor, breaths shallow and leg aflame, and arrived, fall-free, at his dark, quiet office.

He wavered just inside the room. A shaft of moonlight highlighted his path to his desk, like the beam of a damn alien spacecraft. His stomach clenched and twisted uneasily. He dropped his head to stare at his sneakers, willing them to complete one solid, full stride. All he wanted to do was _walk. _His nostrils flared and he tried to swallow against the doubt clinging to his tongue. Bruises and lesions flashed in his brain, souvenirs of stubborn attempts to climb the stairs, to reach a high bookshelf, to cross his own goddamn kitchen for a goddamn beer.

He tossed his backpack, watching it land just short of his desk chair, and eased all of his weight onto his left foot. His hands curled into fists. His fingernails dug into his palms as he planted his right foot in front of him. Just a small step. _One,__tiny, fucking__step_. His brow wrinkled in concentration and his weight fell onto his right foot. Pain charged through his thigh and to his hip as his leg folded underneath him, the world slanted sideways, and he collapsed onto the carpet.

_Fuck. _

His shoulder popped loudly as he shifted his weight, curling onto his left side and relieving the pressure against the gnawing, palpable throb of his thigh. He winced. His hands, red and rug-burned, pressed into the coarse fibers of the carpet. Brown smears of dried blood still outlined his fingernails.

_Fuck. _

He ached. He silently took inventory. His hips, his shoulder, his back. His bloody head. His butchered, ugly thigh. He let his forehead sag to the floor, slowly exhaling a heavy breath. His fingertips trailed patterns on the carpet. He closed his eyes and the lunchtime noise of the cafeteria whispered faintly in his head. The fibrous loops under his hand morphed into a smooth plane of cotton-polyester. Bunched fabric against his forehead, wrinkled in his fist. A hand drawing circles on his back, rising to his neck too intimately. _Damn it. He was there. Why was he always there? _

House rolled his forehead against the carpet. He pushed up, stomach clenched and breaths held, and stood shakily on his left foot. He toppled into his desk chair with a grunt. His hand navigated through the clutter to turn on his lamp and a wash of orange glow spilled onto the desk. He slouched in his chair, his head disappearing into darkness as he unzipped and rifled through his bag, reaching past his portable television, his dirty clothes, a green butterfly yo-yo. Tongue peeking past his lips, he uncovered a neatly rolled t-shirt and dangled it over the desk. A glass bottle and syringe fell into the crease of an opened journal. Nearby, a thick rubber band landed with a slap. House swallowed thick saliva and stroked the bottle's label, his eyes transfixed on the clear bobbing liquid.

A sharp cramp surged in his thigh and he bent over the desk as his hand dived underneath. He grunted and rocked in his chair. He forced microbursts of air through ground teeth and loose papers fluttered to the floor. He eyed the syringe, the bottle. Blood thundered against his ear drums. He hadn't touched morphine in months, not for himself, not for a patient. He plucked the bottle from the crease and held it to his face. Morphine Sulfate Injection, USP. 500 mg.

He tied the band around his bicep, his hand and teeth pulling opposite ends. He swiped the bottle from the desk and plunged the needle inside, the bitter taste of chalky rubber on his tongue. His chest tightened and an acidic burn rose into his throat as the drug climbed the blue notches of the syringe.

He extracted the needle and, with one hand, tipped the syringe upside down to check the dosage. His other hand gripped the bottle in a white-knuckled fist. He stared at the blue vein bulging beneath the skin of his arm as he spun the syringe in unsteady fingers. He blinked rapidly, each moment of blackness interrupted by a pair of dark eyes, a frown. A goddamn worried face. _Always fucking there. _

He bowed his head, a dry, choked noise escaping from his throat, and slammed the syringe against the desk. Clear jets shot from the tip and fell onto his scattered papers. He hurled the bottle toward the wall as he stood, sending his chair sailing into the shelves behind him. The bottle ricocheted onto the floor where it rolled beneath the desk, stopping near his shoe, heeling like a trained lapdog.

He lowered his chin to his chest and felt the effort of his own breath. His fingers darkened and sent alarming tingles up his arm before he finally loosened the rubber band, tossing it onto his desk. He flexed his elbow, sinking back into his chair as he forced himself to breathe deeply. He rolled his head across the back of the chair. His gaze drifted to his balcony. A bright flash of movement drew him from his seat. He hobbled to his balcony door and stood frozen, his jaw hanging dumbly. House watched as Wilson stumbled away from him and across the balcony, seemingly unaware of House's surveillance. When Wilson crossed the threshold into the opposite office, House saw his hand frantically slap the wall and kill the light.


	9. Espionage

Disclaimer: Sadly, I can claim no ownership over these characters.  
A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback. 

**Espionage**

When Wilson arrived at House's office, he found it dark and empty. He paced a path to House's desk and spun in tight circles, his eyes scanning the carpet, bookshelves, a congregation of dog-eared Post-Its sticking to House's computer monitor—nothing useful.

He pushed open the door to the balcony, climbed the divider, and leaned against the wall, folding House's blazer over his forearm. His face rose to the blanket of stars that flickered like the bulbs of a thousand dying flashlights, and he toyed with the buttons on the sleeve of the blazer. Right now, all Wilson wanted was to stand in front of House, close enough to count his eyelashes, and put the blazer in his open hand. No yelling, no lecture, no talk of forgery or prescriptions or pain. Just the brush of House's fingers before the blazer left his hand.

His mind envisioned House's hiding places—the ward of coma patients, empty exam rooms, dark conference rooms. He wondered if Cuddy's office was empty, and if House had the nerve to break into her office if she'd gone home. Wilson snorted a short laugh. Of course he did, but the hospital offered more accessible escape routes. Perhaps House had gone home and was settling into the corner of his couch, a drink in one hand, the remote in the other.

The image made him grin, and he flipped the light switch as he entered his office. He figured a phone call would be easier than a long "search and rescue" mission and he stood beside his desk as his fingers dialed the familiar pattern of House's phone number. He shifted his weight and laid House's blazer across the arm of his chair, his optimism vanishing with each monotonous ring.

"Hello."

Relief flooded Wilson's chest. "House, are you—"

"You've reached a number that has been disconnected—"

Waves of frustration churned in his chest, and he uttered a growl as he fisted the receiver and beat it against his desk. House's recorded voice still leaked into his ears, then a shrill beep, and he slammed the phone harder into the cherry wood, his tension receding with each crack of plastic and the knowledge that House would puzzle over the message upon its playback. When a few dimples appeared in the wood, Wilson gently replaced the phone in its cradle and turned from the desk. As he released a steady, calming breath, he noticed an orange light seeping between the blinds of House's office.

The light called to him as if he was a mosquito, and he crept silently onto the balcony. His breathing slowed as he neared the dividing wall. He held his body as still as possible, rigidly approaching the office as though it contained a wild animal. When he reached the wall, he planted his hands against it and steadied himself as he leaned forward and peered into House's office.

House was there, hunched in his chair. Wilson's gaze travelled from House's head to his shoes. No blood stains, no bandages. He sighed and allowed his body to relax into the wall.

When he saw House's body suddenly bend forward, his face fell. He watched as House rocked over his leg, one hand squeezing his thigh, his eyes squeezed shut. Wilson could detect the rise and fall of House's shoulders, the expansion and deflation of his chest as House drew rapid breaths.

He hadn't seen House like this in _years_. Since the infarction, House had suffered in private and, in the months that followed House's surgery, Wilson had quickly discovered that House never appreciated an audience. So Wilson had spent hours outside of House's bedroom door. He had paced the hallway and circled the living room, measuring the minutes with House's broken gasps.

As his eyes followed House's movements, a sudden shock of anxiety coursed through him. He felt like wet-eared Private behind enemy lines. He should tear his eyes away, retreat to his office before House turned and caught him pressed against the wall, but his body refused to acknowledge the commands of his brain. He stared as House raised a glass bottle to his face. His heart stuttered and threatened to leap from his chest and onto the concrete. The print on the label was too small to read, but Wilson knew the words those letters formed.

His breath rasped as it travelled up his throat and he uttered a soft, pained groan as House began to tie a band around his arm. When House plunged the needle into the bottle, Wilson squinted and rapped his fist against the wall, frustrated that he couldn't read the measured dosage. His lungs burned and pushed heavily on his ribcage; he suddenly remembered to breathe. When had he stopped? He pushed a fragmented, trembling breath past his lips, his eyes fixed on House, on that syringe.

His eyes widened as House lowered the needle to the crease of his elbow and, for one terrifying second, Wilson's head rattled with images of assisted suicides and morphine overdoses. Even as he brushed the thoughts aside, he felt compelled to leap the barrier, throw himself into the room, and wrench the syringe from House's fingers. Tossing caution aside, he tore one foot from the ground and hoisted it over the wall. He paused as House bowed his head, his forefinger shaking as it hovered over the syringe.

With one leg hanging over the wall, his eyes focused on House's white knuckles, on his trembling finger. "Put it down, House," he whispered, letting his words evaporate into the air. "Come on."

He flinched, surprised by House's sudden movement, and nearly tumbled backwards. Wilson followed the path of House's hand as it slammed against the desk and emptied the syringe in a blurry rush of motion. He gripped the wall, fingernails scraping on the rough surface, and watched the bottle fly from House's fist and out of his field of vision. His heart clamored in a wild frenzy. When House slumped into his chair, a bubble of dread popped within Wilson's stomach and he scurried over the divider and onto his own balcony.

He lunged for the door. As he passed into the room, his hand swatted the light switch. He stumbled through the dark, his momentum carrying him to his desk, and he doubled over it. Knick-knacks and folders crashed onto the floor. His feet avoided the debris as he scrambled behind his desk and slouched low in his chair. He cowered lower when he spied House squinting into the darkness toward his office. He shut his eyes.

Too many thoughts clouded his brain. Words scrolled across the back of his eyelids, lit up like a marquee. House. Morphine. Vicodin. Prescription. Empty. Pain. Alternative. He struggled to draw conclusions. He had never seen House use morphine before. Had his pain gotten worse when it returned? Had he taken the last of his Vicodin? Maybe one forgery had been enough for House and he'd found an alternative way to relieve the pain.

Wilson cracked open his eyes, peering across his balcony. House no longer stood sentry at the door and Wilson frantically tried to see into the hall outside of his office. If House had spotted him, he would undoubtedly barge into the room in a minute, maybe less. Wilson sat in silence, wishing he'd locked his door.

As the minutes passed, Wilson's office remained eerily quiet. Finally, Wilson eased up in the chair and pulled open his desk drawer. The prescription pad landed with a slap on the desk as Wilson dug through the drawer for a pen. If House needed pain relief, Wilson would supply it. One close call with morphine was enough.

His hand jerked a little as he wrote, producing handwriting more jagged than usual. He stood as he tore the paper from the pad. Careful not to crush any keepsakes, he left his office and headed for House's. Save for the morphine bottle gleaming in the moonlight, the room appeared exactly as it had earlier—empty, dark, quiet—and Wilson's shoulders fell as he stood beside House's desk. He stooped to pick up the bottle. Holding it in his palm, he stared at it and frowned. His fingers curled around it in a fist and he squeezed gently, sighing, as his other hand stuffed the prescription into his pants pocket. He gathered the syringe and rubber band and hid them inside his jacket pocket as he walked to the elevators. On the ground floor, he slipped into an empty exam room and tossed them, along with the bottle, into a sharps container tucked into the corner.

He rubbed his eyes wearily as he left the hospital. Tomorrow, he would fill the prescription himself and deliver the pills personally. House couldn't evade him forever.


	10. The Powerhouse

Disclaimer: Not my property. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.

A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback. Also, thank you to everyone who's been following this fic as well as leaving lovely comments. I'm grateful for all of my readers.

**The Powerhouse**

Last call.

House tapped his empty glass on the surface of the bar, signaling the bartender as she passed.

She didn't ask what he was drinking and reached for a fresh bottle of Maker's Mark. A smirk upturned the corners of her flamingo-pink lips as she opened the bottle, one manicured hand sliding suggestively along its neck. House shifted uncomfortably, feeling the soles of his sneakers peel away from the damp, sticky floor. He peered over his shoulder at the ugly, mustard-yellow vinyl booths that lined the room, and counted the number of bricks in each wall. Those bricks reminded him of the ones on his balcony, on Wilson's balcony.

By now, Wilson had undoubtedly flooded his answering machine with messages ranging from concerned to angry to panicked. When House had left the hospital, he'd wanted an escape. An escape from the pity, the pain, from Wilson's interference. He'd bypassed his home and found The Powerhouse Bar sandwiched between two dirty Chinese restaurants, the vinyl sign in the window offering cheap drinks and a guaranteed refuge. When he'd caught sight of a tall, dark haired bartender and her low cut jeans, the tanned skin of her belly, he'd decided that he'd rather spend the evening fending off a hard-on than Wilson's frantic questions, and had taken a seat at the end of the bar.

With each refill, the bartender had leaned lower across the bar, nearly spilling out of her strapless top and, with each refill, House had found her more and more difficult to ignore. When her fingers had stroked his knuckles as she'd reached for the glass, he'd forced his attention to the corner of the room, where a group of boys launched into an off-key chorus of "Livin' on a Prayer," their arms wildly strumming the air.

House chanced a peek at his glass. Full. The bartender was swinging her hips to the opposite end of the bar, her eyes darting to his face as she joined her co-worker—a red head with smoky eye shadow. House maintained a tight-lipped expression and studied the peaks of ice bobbing like buoys in his glass, then tipped the glass to his lips. Thick air curled around his back as customers shuffled and stumbled into the night. He drained the last drops from his glass as the door drifted shut, mercifully severing the slurred story of Tommy and Gina, leaving him alone with the pair of bartenders.

Sounds blended together as he hunched over his empty glass—clinks of glasses, the swing of the kitchen door, voices, the uneasy gurgling of his own stomach. Somewhere around midnight, he'd lost count of the number of drinks he'd had. Too many, he realized. He crossed his arms over his chest as another gust of outside air blanketed his back. Heels clicked against the concrete floor and a cheery "See you tomorrow night" sounded in the room as the red head left the bar.

House swayed when he stood and he gripped the edge of the bar to steady himself. He threw a stack of bills beside his empty glass and turned slowly towards the door.

"Hey."

The bartender appeared in front of him, one hand planted firmly against his chest and the other waving a fistful of cash in front of his nose.

"You're short," she said.

"Not as short as you." House tried to sidestep her, but she pushed him backwards. He fell onto a barstool, grimacing.

She advanced to stand between his knees. "Now you are."

House set his jaw and scowled.

The bartender reached past the side of his head and slapped the bills on the bar. She wore a smug, sideways smile. "You still owe me forty-five bucks."

He sighed. "I gave you all of the—"

She lunged forward, pressing herself against him as her hand dove into the back pocket of his jeans. Her hip brushed his groin, and he felt himself start to harden.

"Little unprofesshnal to force your way into my pants, isn't it?" His breathlessness cancelled out the sarcasm in his tone. He sounded ridiculous in his own ears.

She searched his wallet. "You don't seem to mind," she whispered, touching her lips to his ear as she returned the wallet. He saw her smile broaden and watched her lock the door, then reclaim her place in front of him. Her hand dropped to squeeze the growing bulge in his jeans. "No, you don't seem to mind at all." _Shit. _

House's hips jerked. "It's just a biolozical re. . ." His words evaporated on his tongue when her fingers began to stroke the outline of his shaft through the denim. His eyelids fluttered closed. His head fell back against the bar. She unfastened his belt, then his jeans, and, when she wrapped her fingers around his rigid cock, he groaned.

He wasn't sure if he should blame the alcohol, exhaustion, or his own selfish want, but his body went slack under her hands, and he didn't—couldn't—fight her when she pushed his clothes from his hips, crouched between his legs, and locked her lips around the base of his cock. Fingers dug into both of his thighs while her wet, hot tongue curled and swirled around him, forcing him to draw a sharp intake of breath. House's brain clashed with his body, pain merged with pleasure, and he wasn't entirely sure if he should pull back or push forward.

He raised his head and stared at the face in his lap, at the tongue tracing a thick blue vein to his head. _Fuck_, forward. He lowered his hand to the crown of her head and pushed himself into her mouth, panting.

Her hands forced his hips backwards. House felt the warmth of her mouth pull away as she twisted away from him to stand. He suddenly felt cold, and horribly exposed. A shiver coursed from his toes to the top of his head, and he dropped his eyes to her shoes.

Her voice invaded his ear. "Listen, I'm not a fucking whore." Her foot tapped against the floor. "Do you want to get off or not?"

Of course, he did. His dick fucking throbbed. House raised his eyes to her.

She leaned over him and reached down to grasp his cock, squeezing and tugging with a little more force than he would have used on himself. "Do you?" Her breath rushed over his face.

He closed his eyes, turning his face away from her, and gritted out from between clenched teeth, "Yeah."

"Then keep your hands off me."

Without allowing him time to respond, she held his hips and swallowed the length of him. House felt himself twitch in the heat of her mouth and braced his hands on the edges of the stool, fighting to maintain control of his own body. A burning ache grew low in his stomach, slowly spanning across his hips and down his legs. _Yes, almost, yes. _His loud breaths turned to grunts. The pressure in his body coiled into a glowing, red spring and, as he arched back, he gasped, suddenly shocked with a cold rush of air.

His eyes snapped open. The bartender stood an arm's length away, her fingers calmly pulling a cigarette from its pack.

"I din't touch you!" he shouted between heavy breaths.

The bartender held the cigarette between her lips, lighting the tip. She smirked as she exhaled. House's blood pounded against his eardrums.

He watched as she retreated to the door and unlocked it. "Maybe if you'd had enough cash to cover your tab, I would have finished the job." She paused for another drag on her cigarette and ducked behind the bar. House stared dumbly at her. "We're even," she said. "Now zip up and get out."

House blinked, his mouth gaping, and heaved himself to his feet. His body burned with embarrassment and frustration as he tucked his erection into his pants and staggered out of the bar with unsteady feet, the pain in his leg flaring high into his spine.

When House finally stumbled into his dark apartment, it took him a moment to notice the flashing red digit of his answering machine. He rushed across the room, craving the sound of a familiar voice, even an angry, familiar voice. It didn't matter.

Later, he would never admit that he'd tilted his head and listened earnestly to a muffled sound that he couldn't identify. He would never admit that when the message ended with no spoken words, no familiar voice, he'd dropped his eyes and released a shallow sigh before he'd dragged himself to his bedroom and collapsed, not bothering with a change of clothes.

He would never, ever admit that he'd fallen asleep disappointed because Wilson had never even tried to reach him.


	11. Against the Wall

Disclaimer: Not my property. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.

A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback. Thanks again to everyone who's been reading and leaving feedback.

**Against the Wall**

The following morning, muddled, overlapping voices leaked into the corridor as Wilson approached the Diagnostics conference room. When he peered inside, he was surprised to find House absent from the volley. The team—minus one—gathered in a horseshoe around the whiteboard. Wilson lingered just inside the door.

"—could cause poor peripheral circulation." Cameron jabbed at the board, marker in hand.

"Arteriosclerosis is more likely," Chase asserted.

As the fellows paused to consider, Wilson interjected. "Where's House?"

Six scrutinizing eyes swiveled to face him. The fellows turned, their mouths all curving down in deep frowns and their arms crossing tightly over their chests. None of them spoke. Wilson momentarily felt like he was on the wrong side of a firing squad. "What? Don't look at me like that. I don't know where he is."

Foreman huffed. "And we do? Hmm, where's House? Let's see. Hung over? In jail? Gambling in Atlantic City? Who knows?" Spinning to face the board, Foreman drew the team's attention back to the scrawled list of symptoms.

Wilson's eyebrows drew together; he didn't appreciate the condescension.

"I'm with Chase," Foreman continued. "I'm going to run an arteriogram."

Foreman about-faced and led the troops past Wilson, his fingers protectively gripping the patient's file. Cameron trailed behind and paused at the door, her expression softer, almost apologetic.

"I tried calling this morning. I tried his apartment and his cell. He didn't answer." She motioned to House's office. "You could try. Maybe you'll have better luck." She waited for his nod before she left the room.

Wilson crossed into House's office and sunk into the desk chair, glancing at the phone on the corner of House's desk. His hand dipped into the pocket of his lab coat and fiddled with the full vial of Vicodin he'd retrieved from the pharmacy after he'd arrived this morning. Low in his belly, butterflies flitted. He imagined colorful, unique patterns colliding with smooth muscle, blinded by the darkness of the winding tunnels of his intestines. He shifted uneasily.

When House arrived, lurching unsteadily into the room, the butterflies multiplied. House paused just beyond the threshold and eyed Wilson warily, House's weight falling noticeably on his left side.

Wilson mustered an air of confidence and gestured to House. "Sleeping Beauty makes it in! Did the wicked witch keep you up last night?"

House sneered, resuming his uneven step, half-step toward his desk. "Something like that. Get out of my chair."

Wilson vacated his seat and stood at the end of the desk, watching as House gritted his teeth and eased himself down. "So, how's your patient?"

"Still don't know what's wrong with her." House shrugged, sifting through the papers on his desk. He extracted a photograph from between the pages of a journal; Wilson recognized it as the one Chase had tossed aside the previous afternoon.

"Your team did a differential without you this morning. They think it's Arteriosclerosis."

House's cheeks puffed before he released an airy scoff.

Inside his pocket, Wilson's fingers nervously toyed with the ridged top of the vial. The tiny vibrations shifted the pills, punctuating Wilson's reply with a soft rattle.

House's eyes, suddenly alert with intrigue, darted from Wilson's pocket to his face. "I know that merry jingle." His face stern, House abandoned the photograph and leaned back in his chair.

Wilson looked at the tips of his shoes, but he could feel those eyes scanning, reading his face. He sighed and held the translucent vial aloft between his thumb and forefinger. When he spoke, his word sunk to the floor. "You need these." He set the vial on the corner of the desk, waiting for a response. He expected a denial, a retort, a dismissal.

Not a quick, uncharacteristically silent shake of House's head.

In the silence, he forced himself to meet House's stare and heard words tumble out of his mouth, propelled by sheer nerve and pent-up frustration. "I saw you last night. I know you're in pain. I know you need the pills."

House's fingers traced a fold in his jeans and he cast his eyes to the floor, the desk, the wall. Everywhere but the pills and Wilson's face. "It's just—"

"I was _there._" He pointed to the balcony with a hard jab. "I stopped your face from hitting the cafeteria floor! I saw your blood in the shower! I cleaned up your needle, your morphine!"

House's chest seemed to deflate. His fingers gathered a fistful of denim. Wilson paused, steeling himself for an angry outburst, but House sat in silence.

"Look," Wilson said, his voice lowered almost to a whisper. "You almost injected yourself with morphine. You forged my signature to get your hands on more pills. I know you need these."

"I didn't take any." House's voice was eerily even.

"Then what did you do with them?"

Silence again, but House compensated with a glare.

"House, where are they?"

"I thought it might be fun to drug the overnight cleaning staff."

Now both of them glared. Wilson repositioned his feet and planted his hands on his hips. "I might believe it if they were wandering around in a drowsy haze. Where are the pills?"

House nodded toward the conference room. "I saw Chase popping a few. His desperate attempts for approval are so endearing." He paused and pressed a finger to his chin in mock deliberation. "Of course, they could have been Tic-Tacs."

A frustrated smile accompanied Wilson's bout of empty, humorless laughs. He paced a few steps around the desk before he pointed at House, leaning close to House's face. "Right. You, the great seeker of truth, who convinces patients to confess affairs, illegal drug usage—God knows what other incriminating flaws. But when it's your turn to come clean of a dirty little secret, it doesn't matter. The truth doesn't—"

House slapped his hand on his desk, startling Wilson and causing him to take a few steps backwards. "I tossed them over the balcony! Jesus, you almost interrupted the grand finale, but I managed to get rid of all of them before you waltzed out with your fucking stale sandwich!"

Wilson stammered, struggling to comprehend. He stared at him for a second, pressing the tips of his fingers against his temples, before he stammered, "Why—what—why did you do that? You forged my signature, risked your job—my job!—and then you throw—"

"I couldn't take them!" House stood, stumbling forward and throwing out his hands to brace himself against the desk. His breaths were strained. Wilson watched as House's head dropped between slumped shoulders. He struggled to hear House's words. "I couldn't take the pills. I couldn't. . ."

As those words dissipated between them, House bent over the desk, laying his forearms across its surface and folding forward to rest his head against his fists. Wilson felt something, some invisible force, constrict inside his chest. He laid a hand on House's back, between the points of his shoulder blades. The muscles around House's spine shifted and tensed, but Wilson kept his hand still. His eyes traced the contour of House's back, replaying House's words on a continuous loop in his head—the closest admission of defeat that House had ever spoken. With one hand, Wilson could count the number of times House had failed and, every time, House had failed fighting. Surrender was as familiar to House as it was to Alexander the Great, but as Wilson felt the strained pull of House's muscles beneath his hand, he wondered if the fight was worse than the failure.

"You couldn't fail." Wilson finished House's sentence quietly. Despite himself, Wilson raised his hand to brush the base of House's head, his fingers slipping beneath short strands of hair. He traced the jagged scab there, remembering the blood in the shower. Wilson exhaled a broken breath. "You couldn't take the pills, the morphine, and you haven't started using your cane again because you couldn't lose—"

"Don't." House flinched and reared back, shoving Wilson away with both hands and nearly sending himself back into his chair.

"Look!" Wilson gestured wildly. "You can hardly keep your balance! But if you took back the cane and the pills, it would mean that you'd lose your control, your newfound independence. And you'd rather fight your way through bruises and cuts and gashes than lose your control. You couldn't let yourself go back to being –"

"Stop trying to figure me out. I'm not a goddamn patient, so—"

Wilson advanced on him, putting House between himself and the wall. He could hear the blood rushing behind his eardrums. He reached for House's arm as he backed House against the wall. "No, you're not. You're—"

"Stop it." House pushed Wilson's hands away. Wilson was so close that he could feel heavy, forceful breaths against his face.

"You're the only fucking friend I have, and I want—"

"Just _stop_!"

_You. I want you. I want to fucking love you._

He swallowed the words in his throat, refusing to give them voice, and instead croaked, "House." Wilson's eyes swept House's face—bulging, alert eyes, tight line of lips—and dropped to his body. Flattened to the wall, House held his body rigidly still, arms angling out, fingers spread wide against the wall. House looked like a petrified chameleon trying to blend in with the paint.

"House." Again, and shaky.

His fingertips slid from House's biceps to his shoulders. House wrestled, shrugging off his touch, pushing wildly at his hands. Wilson's own breaths quickened, stolen between flurries of scattered movement. Movement that bypassed his brain, ignored rational thought and inhibition, and commandeered his body. Sweaty hands pinned a pair of forearms to the wall. Blood pulsed rapidly beneath his palms. Chest heaved and stretched, and hips pressed hard into radiating waves of heat. One hand snaked across a knotted shoulder, past a collar, and up to graze flushed, raised skin. Fingers gripped, cupped the base of a head and pulled down, tilted to the side. Lips slanted and crushed against lips. Finally, _finally, _Wilson felt the gradual wane of resistance; his own reservations collapsed and the struggle evaporated from the body against him.

Wilson kissed with open eyes, brown holding blue, and he celebrated an internal triumph when those blue eyes fell closed, the tense, ropy muscles under his fingers relaxed, and soft lips parted against his mouth. The heat was inviting, and Wilson pushed his tongue inside, searching feverishly to identify tastes, textures, and store them in the deep, locked confines of his memory. He fisted locks of House's hair and swallowed a moan when he traced the wet, delicious curve of House's tongue that slid willingly against his own.

He broke away, lungs burning and trying to draw air. House leaned against the wall, his head tilted back, his eyes still closed. Wilson felt lightheaded and bent forward to press his forehead against House's chest. He curled his fingers in the fabric of House's shirt, inhaling the crisp smell of soap, leftover traces of fabric softener, and a faint, soothing scent that reminded him of warm spices—clove or nutmeg or cinnamon. He sighed, nuzzling the fabric with his nose.

An audible gasp escaped him when the door of House's office swung open. Wilson threw himself back against the desk, a fiery blush flaring into his cheeks. He stared wide-eyed at Cameron as she straddled the threshold. Wilson dropped his eyes and grinned feebly at her shoes.

"We need you. Our patient's been trying to scratch the skin off her arms. She says it's burning."

House eyed her quizzically and sighed deeply. Wilson chanced a glance at House, who pushed himself from the wall and staggered forward to reach across his desk. Warm, steady breaths streamed into his ear as House leaned down beside him. He froze, breath catching silently. Behind him, Wilson heard papers shuffling. When House stepped back, he stuffed a small piece of paper—the photograph—into his back pocket. Wilson's heart leapt when he caught a dazzling flash of color and found himself the object of a quick, but intense gaze. He realized that he was still holding his breath when House joined Cameron at the door.


	12. On Three

Disclaimer: Not my property. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.  
A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback.

**On Three**

As House moved through the corridors, trailing behind Cameron, his body cruised on autopilot. His fingers slid across his bottom lip, still kiss-swollen and wet with lingering moisture. Wet with Wilson, who'd tasted like a rich, caramel latte and a Granny Smith apple—familiar flavors, but experienced through an unexpected and startlingly new delivery device. One corner of House's mouth curved to form a half-grin. Leave it to Wilson to blanket the unusual with comforting staples of the mundane.

When he entered the patient's room, he nearly collided with Foreman, who stepped between him and Cameron. "You're a little late," Foreman snapped, crossing his arms.

Feeling suddenly self-aware, House dropped his hand from his lips. "Morning quickie. Couldn't pass it up," he said, waggling his eyebrows and adding a low, playful growl.

Foreman rolled his eyes and joined Chase, who failed to hide his amusement, at the head of the patient's bed. Near the window, Cameron eyed House suspiciously. Eager to derail Cameron's train of thought, House approached the patient, pulling the photograph from his back pocket. He stopped at the foot of the bed and tossed the photograph on to the patient's lap.

"Your vacation spot?" House asked.

The patient, a young woman in her twenties, scratched at her arms, both limbs bearing raw patches of skin. A pair of brown eyes stared at him, confused.

House waited for her response, his fingers lazily returning to his lips. Wilson's eyes, he'd noticed, held amber slivers, flecks of bronze that hugged his pupils, glowing like tiny, burning embers that had made House's heart ignite in his chest.

_House. _ When he'd heard that urgent, breathy waver in Wilson's voice, the flames had dipped below his navel.

"House!"

He shook his head, blinking, and met Foreman's skeptical glower. No amber, no bronze there.

Foreman gestured to the patient, and continued. "Is this medically relevant?"

"Ah, come on! Slide shows could be fun!" House grasped the plastic footboard and leaned forward, directing his attention to the patient. "That picture, did you take it while you were on vacation?"

"Yeah, in Germany." Hesitation was evident in her voice. "I stayed with a family there for a couple weeks. This is their farm."

House nodded. "Did you notice any animals acting a little strange while you were there?"

"I thought it was weird, but—"

"Any rye growing on this farm?"

"Yeah, lots of it."

"And I'm guessing Old MacDietrich kept some for himself, fed his livestock, his family. . ." House let his voice trail off, milking the moment for dramatic effect. "And you."

The patient nodded.

Cameron interjected, stepping closer to the bed. "Ergot poisoning?"

"Makes sense," Chase said. "The alkaloids in the fungus constrict the blood vessels, which caused the gangrene in her foot. Ergotism can cause seizures, hallucinations, burning sensations, even loss of peripheral feeling altogether. And it affects livestock."

House nodded. "Start the treatment." He turned and lumbered toward the door, his hand dropping to ease a rising wave of pain in his thigh. Behind him, he heard feet shuffling and the rapid _click-click _of heels.

As he fled toward the elevators, Cameron coasted smoothly beside him, Foreman and Chase caught in her wake. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"You seem distracted." Her voice dripped with concern. "What was Wilson—"

"I'm _fine, _but our patient's not going to be unless you _treat her_." House lengthened his stride. Thirty feet away, the elevators loomed like a pair of cathedral doors, promising sanctuary and respite from the sudden inquisition.

Foreman scuttled into House's peripheral vision. "And, all of a sudden, that takes three doctors?"

"Okay. Cameron, treat the patient. Chase, write up the patient discharge forms. And you, go home, get laid, and spare everyone your—"

Before House could deliver the punch line, his leg folded beneath him. His knee crashed against the floor; the jarring force drove the air from his lungs, killing an agonized cry in his throat. He fell forward, the sting in his palms barely registering as they slapped against the linoleum. Wheezing, he slid across the floor toward the wall, searching for stability. Sharp, fiery jolts coursed through his leg, up his spine, into his chest, his lungs. He rocked forward, his eyes squeezing shut and his hands clasping his thigh. His gasps receded when he managed to draw an unsteady half-breath, then a full breath. Two. Three. Lifting his head, he pressed his back against the wall, waiting for the burn to ease in his lungs. When he opened his eyes, he found three wide-eyed faces, concern painted over their features like loud, obnoxious graffiti.

"Why are you still here?" House asked, his voice raspy—an incidental reinforcement for his harsh tone.

Cameron stuttered, "We—you fell—we just wanted to make—"

"Go do your jobs."

House made no effort to stand. He waited, watching them slowly turn and intermittently glance over their shoulders as they reluctantly retreated. When they disappeared from his sight, he steadied his left foot and pushed himself up the wall, sliding his back against the panels. He traced a path along the wall, his hand serving as a guide. His thigh protested each step, and he thought of the full bottle of Vicodin on the corner of his desk.

Standing before the elevators, his thumb punched the inlaid button harder than necessary, repeatedly jabbing at the arrow. His head dropped and his mouth sagged in a disgusted frown. Wilson had been right. He needed the pills, needed to dull the unrelenting, goddamn pain. He needed to stop pretending that he could force himself to recover, that he could overcome the ketamine's failure and run, _run, _with the breeze on his face, chasing down the sun as if all of this was a nightmare that would break with the dawn.

When the elevator doors opened, he sighed and trudged inside, falling back into the corner.

He exited on the second floor, making a detour to Physiotherapy. Ducking past the flustered receptionist and a chain of personal therapy sessions, he stole into an equipment closet. He inhaled the smells of rubber and plastic, and pushed past shelves of exercise bands and balls, wobble boards and cuff weights. His hands found a worn, wooden curve and yanked it from its place near the wall, revealing the lackluster shaft of a C cane. He gripped the handle, staring at it for a moment before letting the rubber tip fall and bounce against the floor. He straightened his arm and felt the bunching of out-of-practice muscles. Closing his eyes, he sighed as he bent his knee and leaned his weight onto the cane, the tiny motion relieving the battery of knife-sharp stabs in his leg. Relieving the pain just enough to move from the closet, through the department, and into the corridor.

By the time he emerged from the elevator on the fourth floor, he'd maintained light footsteps, but had fallen back into the motion of his adopted, uneven stride. Inside his office, he fell into his desk chair, rolling the cane along his thighs. The orange vial rested on the corner of the desk, where Wilson had left it. For a few moments, he looked from the cane to the pills. His mind drifted to Wilson—'the only fucking friend I have'—as he swiped the vial. With a fluid sweep, he popped the top, palmed a pill, and threw it to the back of his throat. As a bitter aftertaste settled over his tongue, he wished for the flavor of Granny Smith apples, entire orchards of them.

The residue still clung to his tongue when his telephone rang. Reading the glowing digital panel, House sighed heavily. He pressed the receiver to his ear, his head falling into his hand.

"Hi, Mom." He sounded weary. She was bound to notice weary.

Predictably, his tone caused her to skip her usual pleasantries. "Greg, is everything all right? You sound tired."

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his forehead. "I am."

"Difficult week?"

He nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry we didn't make it any easier on you."

A small sigh preceded his reply. "No, it wasn't—listen, Mom, I'm sorry I walked out. I was—"

"I understand, dear." Her smile was apparent in her tone. She would have touched him, put a hand on his arm, if she had been standing next to him.

A few seconds of silence passed. House could hear water running, the clinks of glasses and dishes. He closed his eyes, pressing the palm of his hand into a socket. "Mom," he started. "The pain's back. Everything's back."

He heard her sigh heavily. "So you're . . ."

His chest tightened, constricting his words. "Yeah, back on three feet again."


	13. A Certain Dawn

Disclaimer: Not my property. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.  
A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback. Thanks to anyone who's been following and leaving comments.

**A Certain Dawn**

The sun had set hours ago. Wilson teetered on House's couch, fingers gripping the slippery neck of a beer bottle. Beads of water had dribbled from its base and puddled on his pant leg. He sighed and traced the edge of the damp patch of fabric, completing each circle as another dreary, organic _tick-tock _fell from the brown glass.

Sometime after his second Black and Tan, he had stopped crossing to the window whenever he'd heard a loud, rumbling engine. Instead, he'd wedged himself into the corner of the couch, resolving to stay put and busy his brain with thoughts apart from House. He'd browsed the TiVo, peeked over the top of his newspaper during episodes of Taxi, before settling on a late-night ballgame—New York at Seattle.

Wilson stretched his legs, propping his feet on the coffee table. He watched with boyish excitement as Betancourt jumped on a hanging breaking ball and stroked a two-run double down the right-field line. 4-2, Seattle. He celebrated with a restrained _whoop, _raising his bottle to the screen.

"I hope that means they're losing."

Wilson nearly inhaled a mouthful of beer. "By two. You're home late."

"Was I supposed to call? Did I make you ruin your meatloaf?"

Wilson smirked, thankful, for once, to hear derision in House's voice.

"By the way," House added. "You're treading on my turf. Breaking and entering is my job."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you'd registered your trademarks. Besides, it's not breaking and—" As Wilson shifted on the couch, his eyes fell on House and a sharp inhale carried the rest of his words into his lungs. Maintaining a mild expression, Wilson peered at the cane beside House. He followed the line of its shaft from the floor to House's hand, which featured a chain of pale knuckles. He released a small sigh, deciding against words. If he spoke, House wouldn't hear concern. House would hear pity and would recoil into a tight spiral of barbed wire, lashing out if he ventured too close.

"So…" House dropped his head, tapping his cane on the floor. "Did the cable go out at your place, or…"

Wilson reciprocated House's awkward tone. "Um, no. I, uh…" Wilson stood, reaching for the blazer folded across the back of the couch. He held it to House, wordlessly extending his arm.

Wilson's heart started an erratic rhythm as House came forward, breaching his personal space and sandwiching the blazer, clutched tightly in Wilson's fist, between their bodies.

"I thought the janitors stole it." House's voice was low; it didn't help Wilson's heart rate.

Wilson offered a weak smile. He dropped his head as House's hand rose to collect the blazer. Beneath the skin, the bones of House's hand fanned and his fingers spread, brushing against Wilson's knuckles before closing around the fabric. Wilson closed his eyes and forced a swallow.

"Been here long?" House asked. The question sounded casual, but Wilson knew better. With House, nothing was casual.

Wilson raised his head. "An hour," he lied.

"You can't handle three beers—"

"Two and a half." Wilson bent down and brandished the bottle. Liquid sloshed against the glass.

"—in an hour. You'd be drooling all over my leather." House lifted the blazer between them, and Wilson's gaze darted from the garment to House's face. Wilson could see gears churning behind House's eyes. "You didn't come here just to give me this. Did you?"

No, he didn't. He'd come here with the hope of—of what? He wasn't sure, and when he felt fingers curl gently around his wrist and a dry, tentative press of thin lips against his mouth, he suddenly didn't care. Wilson had barely closed his eyes before House's lips trailed kisses from his ear to his neck. He felt the blazer graze his shin as it fell, House's fingers loosening the buttons of his shirt as it pooled around his feet.

"You first," Wilson mumbled, reaching clumsily for the hem of House's t-shirt and pulling. He let it join the blazer on the floor.

Heart beating wildly, Wilson wriggled free of his shirt and pressed carefully into House's body. His arms curved around House's back, fingers spreading across vertebrae and warm skin. He dropped kisses on House's collarbone, sighing raggedly when House abandoned his cane and leaned into him, one hand squeezing the nape of his neck.

Wilson eased House onto the couch, guiding him backwards onto the middle cushion. He leaned forward, flattening his palms against House's chest, and ran his tongue along House's bottom lip. He watched his eyes fall closed, heard a soft, choked noise, and closed his lips over House's mouth.

He'd rushed this morning. He'd been needy, desperate, and had tried to taste too much at once. He'd robbed himself of air, lost in the wet, silken feel of House's mouth, and had forgotten to breathe. Now, he drew away for millisecond breaths, touching his forehead against House's before returning to part House's lips with his tongue.

Wilson's thumbs traced the ridge of House's ribcage. House arched into his hands, and Wilson had to steady himself, planting one knee between House's legs. He broke from his mouth, dropping his eyes as his fingers loosened the button of House's jeans. He fumbled with the zipper, his stomach clenched with nerves befitting a teenaged virgin.

"You know," House rasped between heavy breaths, interrupting his progress. "This make-out session has been great, but I don't think we should bust out all of our moves in one night."

Wilson tilted his head, recognizing House's disguised request to stop. _Trust me, _he wanted to say_. Please, trust me. _Instead, he mustered a playful grin and chimed, "Ah, well, lucky for you, I've got a pretty big arsenal."

Wilson noticed House's uncomfortable squirm as he slid the fabric below House's hips.

"But—" House's voice squeaked with uncertainty.

"Let me do this." It wasn't a demand; it was a plea.

Wilson held House's gaze for a moment. When House nodded, he mirrored the gesture and pulled the rest of House's clothes from his body, piling them on the floor beside his shirt.

"Relax," Wilson whispered, kissing the center of House's chest. He kneeled between House's legs, his lips following roaming fingers. His tongue drew wet paths across House's belly, the warm skin rapidly rising and falling beneath his mouth. He lingered over the scar there, exploring its rough texture. Wilson felt the muscles under his hands and mouth tense as he drew his mouth lower, hovering above House's more prominent scar.

"That's—" House paused for a sharp inhale as Wilson traced the jagged, puckered tissue with his tongue. "That's not sexy."

Wilson felt House's hand on his shoulder, squeezing, but not pushing. Since the infarction, he had seen House's scar—he'd dressed it, checked the incision—and he agreed; it wasn't sexy. But as his lips grazed the sunken thigh, something inside Wilson's chest released, flooding him with a spiraling rush of overwhelming affection. He turned his head and pressed his cheek against the leg, letting his warm breaths flow across House's skin. A series of small, gasping breaths floated down from above him, and Wilson felt goosebumps rise under his cheek.

House pulled at his shoulder. "While you're down there, you could—"

A lopsided grin spreading across his face, Wilson bowed his head and, without preface, wrapped his lips around the head of House's cock. House's words morphed into a breathy groan.

House's rigid, swollen erection filled his mouth, sliding along the inside of his cheek. As his tongue circled the tip, Wilson's eyes fluttered shut, absorbing the taste of salt on smooth skin, the sound of House's broken moans and shallow breaths. He smoothed his hands up House's sides, feeling his body curve and arch. A hot, tingling ache spread through Wilson's chest and pooled in his stomach. He moaned against House's shaft as his hands groped for the button of his slacks, struggling to multitask.

Letting House's cock slip from his mouth, he stood. As he shed his clothes, shaking off a clingy pant leg, House swiveled and stretched his body across the cushions. His lips curved in a small grin as he reached for Wilson's hand. Wilson felt an insistent tug and allowed House to pull his body onto the couch—onto _him. _He hummed softly, repressing a shiver.

Wilson nudged House's thighs apart, wedging himself between them, his knees sinking into leather. House's hands pressed against his back, gripped the nape of his neck, squeezing and pulling, guiding him until he covered House's body. Wilson dipped his head into the curve of House's shoulder, inhaling the scent of clean sweat, warm spices, distinctive and already familiar. His hips jerked involuntarily. Again, harder and on purpose this time, grinding, sliding against House's erection. House's grunt resounded in his ear, and he felt House's hands press into the curve of his ass, urging him forward.

"_House." _

House's name fell easily from his tongue and, as it hung in the air between them, Wilson wondered what his own name would sound like, pushed from House's lips like that. Breathed against the side of his neck, his face.

Beneath him, House pushed against his body in a strong, steady rhythm, chin tipped up, neck arched and exposed. A rosy-pink flush crept from House's cheeks to his collarbone. House rubbed and slipped against him, skin hot and damp, and Wilson nuzzled the side of House's neck, _feeling _House's groans and gasps against his lips.

He had never seen House abandon rational thought and succumb completely to something so primal. He stared, open-mouthed, as House's head pressed back into the armrest and his body pushed up, rolling against him. Without reservation, Wilson reached between them and wrapped his fingers around House and himself, drawing a long, raw moan from House's throat.

_That's it, House. Let go. _

This was what he craved—House like this. He wanted it with unquenchable need and he wanted to cause it, over and over again.

He rose up and pressed his open mouth to House's. His tongue darted inside, stroking the smooth wall of his cheek, sliding against his tongue. House's fingers weaved into his hair and held his head still. Wilson rocked into his own hand, grinding down, and he felt vibrations fill his mouth as House released a series of throaty half-moans. House's breath, puffed through his nose, crashed against Wilson's face before House pulled away, turning his head to the side to draw a ragged breath.

Wilson felt House's body arching beneath him as their rhythm gave way to wild strokes. Palms flattened against his shoulder blades, and House tucked his face against Wilson's shoulder as he came. When Wilson heard his name on the tail of a shaky exhale, his body jerked and he spilled over his hand and on to House's stomach. He squeezed lightly before he pulled his hand away, suddenly unsure of what to do with it.

He felt House uncurl one arm from around his back and, a stretch later, nudge his elbow with a bunch of soft fabric.

"Here."

Wilson wiped his hand, then leaned back to swipe at House's stomach before tossing the shirt back to the floor. When he looked into House's face, he found a pair of heavily-lidded eyes blinking at him. Wilson bent forward to brush the hairline behind House's ear and grinned as House's head turned into his touch, blue eyes fluttering closed.

"Come on," Wilson said, standing and tugging gently on House's hand. "No sleeping on the couch. You'll regret it in the morning."

House didn't argue. Wilson guided him to through the hallway in comfortable, sleepy silence. House drew back the blankets and climbed into bed, wordlessly boycotting the pillows until Wilson joined him.

On the fuzzy edge of sleep, Wilson heard a soft mumble drift into his ears. "Thanks for the blazer." His eyelids closed before he could answer.

Wilson woke with the sunrise the next morning, squinting sleepily and finding House, lying on his stomach, his face half-buried in the pillow. He slid his hand from beneath the wrinkled sheet and slipped his forefinger into House's hair. Blinking slowly, Wilson followed the slanted rays of sunlight as they fell across the bed. Thoughts of an awkward 'morning-after' plagued his mind, but he pushed them away. He was warmed by the wash of sunlight that kissed the short strands of hair curling around his finger.


	14. Welcomed Interruptions

Disclaimer: Not my property. I mean no harm in borrowing these characters.A/N: Thanks to my LJ beta, user "starlingthefool." I welcome concrit and feedback. I really enjoyed writing this story. Thanks to everyone who followed it. Special thanks to everyone who offered feedback - I appreciate your thoughts and encouragement.

**Welcomed Interruptions**

Wilson stood in House's bathroom, peering at his reflection and raking his fingers through damp hair. He mumbled under his breath, cursing his feeble willpower and House, who he had left in the shower, lathered in soap and humming into the spray.

This morning, propped up on one elbow beside House, he had considered leaving, slipping out of bed and back to his hotel room. Wilson had uncurled his finger from House's hair, certain that House didn't expect romance, promises, or notes left on his pillow, scattered with endearments and signed 'With love'. His certainty had crumbled, however, when he'd felt House's arm curl around his waist and soft, warm breaths flow across his shoulder.

Wilson had watched the numbers change on House's alarm clock, flipping like miniature panels on a train station schedule. At half-past eight, he'd slid out from beneath House's arm and groggily searched the closet, pleased when he had unearthed one of his own button-downs from a pile on the floor—a souvenir of his brief stay as House's roommate, he'd assumed. Before escaping to the shower, he had reached into the top drawer of the bureau and pilfered a pair of gray socks and boxer-briefs, which House apparently hadn't noticed.

Of course, House had concentrated his waking efforts on ambushing him in the shower. Wilson had gasped and sputtered a mouthful of water as House's hand had wrapped around him. He had done his best to discourage him, muttering concerns about missing the morning rounds, but House had locked an arm around his waist and leaned into him. He had braced himself against the wall, his back pressing against House's front, and felt House's lazy touches develop into firm, steady strokes. His own weak protests had dissolved into groans when House had bit lightly on his earlobe and triggered a hard, sudden release onto the tiles.

Now, Wilson hurried to dress. As he buttoned his shirt, House padded out of the bathroom, a towel secured around his waist. He stood behind him, ghosting kisses behind his ear.

"I'm already late, House."

"You left me in there with a hard-on." House emphasized his point, rubbing the hard curve of his erection against Wilson's ass.

Wilson fumbled with a button on his sleeve. "I have a meeting with a patient in a half-hour." He rolled his eyes at the waver in his voice.

"Are you sleeping with this one?"

"No."

"Then your patient can wait."

Wilson spun to glare at him. "She has cervical cancer. Her problem is a little more urgent than yours."

Without a reply, House retreated into the kitchen and made a noisy show of rifling through the breadbox and rattling the toaster. As Wilson knotted his tie, he crossed into the kitchen and peered around House, who hovered close to his toasting bagel.

"Any more of those left?"

House tossed the remaining bagel into the trash and smirked. "Nope."

"Great," Wilson said, throwing up his hands. "Thanks."

When House's bagel popped, he made a grab for one of the halves.

"Hands off." House scolded, slapping his hand. "You shouldn't keep your cancer chick waiting. She has urgent needs, you know."

With a huff, Wilson gathered his jacket and stalked out of the apartment, ignoring the loud crunch as House gnawed on his breakfast.

An accident on Elm forced him to detour through commuter-crowded side streets and spend fifteen minutes stopped in traffic. His stomach grumbled as he drummed on the steering wheel, imagining the morning spread in the cafeteria—an array of fruits, cereals, pastries. Food cravings, however, surrendered to anxiety when he rushed into the hospital's lobby, thirty minutes overdue for his meeting. He began rehearsing a convincing, professional apology and headed for the stairs. As he contemplated a tactful way to translate 'horny cripple,' the sound of his name made him turn his head.

A nurse behind the counter of the reception desk waved at him. "Dr. Cuddy wants to see you," she said.

"I have a meeting with a patient," he said, his feet still carrying him toward the stairs. "I'm very late."

"She said it's important."

Wilson huffed, stalking through the Clinic doors and into Cuddy's office, failing to knock before barging into the room.

"Dr. Wilson," Cuddy announced as she stood behind her desk. "You remember Jane Mesko?" She extended her hand to a blonde woman seated opposite her.

The woman shifted in her chair; Wilson recognized her as his cervical cancer patient. He sighed inwardly, stepping toward her and assuming a polite, apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, Jane. I—"

"Mrs. Mesko."

"Of course, I'm very sorry. I was held up by unforeseen circumstances."

Cuddy threw him a skeptical look, raising her eyebrows and crossing her arms.

He added, "I'd be happy to discuss your treatment and address any concerns you might have." He swept his hand in the direction of the door.

The patient nodded curtly, clutching her handbag as she rose from her seat.

Cuddy stepped around her desk and stood beside Wilson. "My apologies, again, Mrs. Mesko. I'm sure that this will never happen again. Dr. Wilson is very dependable." The remark made Wilson feel sheepish, and he dropped his eyes to the carpet.

As the patient turned and started walking toward the door, Cuddy leaned close to Wilson and spoke in a hushed tone. "If you want to adopt one of House's _charming _traits, learn to juggle or play a musical instrument, something that doesn't affect your patients." She returned to her desk, absently rearranging papers as she added, "Or me."

Wilson left without comment and joined his patient outside of the office. He initiated polite chit-chat while he led her to the fourth floor. Despite his in-depth study of scuff mark patterns, he was uncomfortably aware of her eyes drilling into the side of his head. He shuffled with his keys outside his door and, feeling flustered, quickly retreated behind the barrier of his desk, sinking heavily into the chair.

He sifted through his desk drawer for her patient file. "Ah, here it is," he said, slapping the file onto the desk.

The patient gave an insincere, tight-lipped smile as she sat on the couch, her posture unnaturally stiff.

Wilson inhaled deeply, like a diver poised over the deep end, and plunged into a familiar speech. "It's best if we go over your options. Radiation therapy would—"

A frustrated sigh overtook his words as his door swung open. When his eyes fell upon House, waving a set of large X-ray films in his direction, his head fell into his hand.

"Need a consult," House said, advancing into the room.

"I'm in a meeting, House." His eyes overlooked House's outstretched hand and flickered from House's face to his patient's, which began to contort into a sharp, angry expression.

House leaned onto his cane, his hand falling to his side, his head tilting. "It's funny," he said, pausing for a staged chuckle that made Wilson squirm. "When I got up this morning, I noticed a pair of my—"

Wilson stood abruptly, propelling his chair into the bookshelves behind him. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Mesko. You'll have to excuse me for a moment."

Hot air rocketed from his nostrils. He gripped House by the elbow and dragged him onto the balcony, ignoring his patient's glare and House's smug, lopsided grin.

"Hey, go easy on the cripple." House tore his arm from Wilson's fingers.

"You," Wilson pointed a finger close to House's face. "You made me late, made me miss my meeting. I'm not going to 'go easy on you'!"

House propped his cane against the wall. "You never had to stay the night. You could have left any time, showered at your homey hotel, but you didn't."

"I never could have lived with myself if I had damaged your ego," he spit, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

House ignored the jab. "You _wanted_ me to come in. You never even locked the bathroom door. It was practically a welcome mat."

Wilson threw his hands into the air and let them fall with a slap against his thighs. "Of course! How could I forget? Closed doors are _invitations _to you."

"And that shower was too cold, by the way. I set the temperature next time."

Wilson fought back a grin, gently shaking his head. After a silent moment, he nodded to the films in House's hand. "What do you need?"

House extended the films. He took them, holding them above his head.

Beside him, House bounced the tip of his cane against the concrete. "Late game tonight."

Wilson continued to squint at the film. "I didn't think you'd be able to stand the Yankees for two nights in a row."

"I barely saw five minutes of that game."

"Not my fault. These could be granulomas. Did you test for histoplasmosis?"

"No signs of calcification. And I'm out of chips."

"You're out of beer, too. I finished all your Yuengling last night."

House puffed a burst of air through his nose. "Then bring that, too."

Tossing House a sideways glance, he lowered the films. "It could be cancerous. Did you do a bi—"

Suddenly, House's balcony door swung open. Chase leaned out, holding on to the door jamb. "Biopsy results are in. It's cancer," he said, and ducked back into the office.

House screwed up his face, peeking at Wilson through one eye and clearly bracing for a proverbial slap on the wrist. Wilson stared at him, realization dawning, and wagged his finger at him. "You _did_ do a biopsy, because you already had a theory. You didn't need a consult."

House sighed, snatching the films in his hand, and carefully hoisted himself over the divider.

"House," he called, his voice gentler, laced with unspoken understanding.

House turned his head, one hand on the door handle.

"10:05 start?"

A tiny, half-grin teased the corner of House's mouth as he nodded. Wilson mirrored the gesture. He spun slowly toward his office, passing through warm beams of sunlight. As he resumed his discussion with his patient, practiced words flowing automatically, he let his eyes flutter toward House's balcony and caught himself hoping for another interruption—or two, or five—before the day's end.


End file.
